


Island Wedding

by crowleyshouseplant



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-26
Updated: 2014-06-26
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 121,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1846894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crowleyshouseplant/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Harper's Island AU. Raise your glass to horror, murder, and drama. And everybody wanting Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank my beta, Kelsey (tumblr user tomhannigers), and my artist, uh-tiramisu, for their collaboration and their support. You are great! 
> 
> Please see this post for uh-tiramisu's art: [[x](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/3497.html)]
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> (for a full list of potentially triggering content, please see the end notes, as they do provide spoilers; i have also only tagged the end-game ship, but there is a lot of shipping on the side--please see end notes for details)

Seven years ago, John Winchester slaughtered his wife and several of his friends.

They were the first murders on what would later become known as Dante's Island.

They will not be the last.

 

 

 

_My name is Dean, and I've come home to Dante's Island. My best friend is getting married to the girl of his dreams. But not everything about this trip is a celebration._

__


	2. Silver

Dean’s apartment, clean, spacious, bright with sunlight in the day and silver with moonlight in the night, revealed glimpses of the man who wrote science fiction novels under the eponym Dean Smith. A nutri-blender nestled beside an espresso machine, gleaming and silver as if it was still new though in truth Dean had bought them both several years ago. In his bathroom, an assortment of lotions, soaps, cologne, and perfume were clustered in order of size and shape in the corner. Makeup--neutral browns and beiges in one drawer, jewel tone greens and blues and purples in another--was stowed carefully away. No blush or foundation, though, because his mother had once said that his freckles were angel kisses because they were watching over him.

Just under the laced edge of his curtains, salt dusted the window frames and shadowed the doorway, meticulously redrawn every night before bed as he swished his mouth with Listerine, winter fresh, the one with just enough zing to tingle his gums (brushed with sensodyne on the recommendation of his dentist) and to clear his sinuses.

If someone had kicked back the plush, red carpet that led the way into his living room, they would have seen a devil’s trap, traced lightly in brown chalk against the faux wood floor.

The walls stood bare, but clean.

Dean stood in the center of the carpet now, his brown shoes, polished so that the sun gleamed from the toes, leaving their mark the longer he stood so still and heavy. He would have to vacuum the impression out later. His red suspenders were already pushed from his shoulders, looped in twisted ovals along his thighs. His hands, nails carefully manicured and buffed, held a wedding invitation between trembling fingerprints as his lips mouthed over the words three times before he squeezed his eyes shut and, upon opening them again, he read the highly curly-cued script, embossed with gold, one more time.

You are cordially invited to the wedding of Sam and Ruby.

He looked at the date, then, after pulling it slowly from his back pocket, at his day planner. The extravaganza began this Sunday. He had no plans written in neat, blue ballpoint script for that particular day or even that particular week. He could put something down. Could put something down like Go To Local Starbucks, buy black and white peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream, and read novel of choice for purposes of self care.

He could do that.

He turned the paper over, mostly out of habit, and paused when he saw the handwritten scrawl at the corner. _Please come. I’ve missed you. -- Sam_.

The rest of the invitation detailed that they would use a ferry to cross to an island off the coast of the Washington state on Sunday, and that they would stay at the vast Dante Estate for a week with pre-celebration revelries including the bachelor and bachelorette party early in the week, the wedding on Thursday, after parties on Friday and Saturday, and a return date on Sunday.

It had been seven years since Dean had seen Sam. Seven years since it had happened. Since he’d seen Sheriff Mills. Since he’d seen his mother, buried six feet under in the local graveyard. Seen his dad’s face with the yellow gleam in his eyes. Seen his brother, Adam.

His stomach flexed against the twist of nausea that settled low in the fallow pit of his gut, and he reached out for the wall, steadied himself against it, his breath, sharp and erratic, against the runaway train of his heart, his teeth grinding against each other as he tried to focus, tried to remember the light weight of the spiral notebook in his back pocket. He pulled it from him, clicked his pen open, and, with shaking strokes, drew a pattern struck with right angles in a circular fashion as he crafted a maze he would solve later--probably after dinner, maybe over coffee.

The labyrinth was larger than usual--not as large as the ones before, when it had first happened, but large enough. He drew until his heart calmed down, until his breath steadied, until the muscles in his hands stopped shivering, and his strokes became hard and sure instead of shaky and wobbly. 

He held it before him, face drawn and pale, and shook his head before putting the maze down on the table. In the meantime, he needed to make dinner. Bake chicken, cut up carrots. Indulge in the chocolate he’d bought a month ago and had put in the fridge for a rainy day.

Feel guilty about that instead.

It wasn’t until after he’d washed the dishes, moisturized his hands, and pushed the on button for his espresso machine--wasn’t until after he’d solved the maze and wasn’t until after he’d brushed his teeth and slipped a silk robe over his body (still looking toned and good despite his week off from the gym) after a long, hot shower, that he realized that maybe seven years was long enough.

What did they say? That the body renewed all its cells in seven years?1

It was a marvel to think that these feet had not yet tread the paths of the island, that these hands had not yet pushed aside the green trees, that these eyes had not gazed upon the horizon of the water meeting the sky—and yet they had, he had, even if his body was brand new after these seven years.

He looked around at the bare walls.

Maybe it was time to return home. It would only be for a few days. If it was too much, he could return on a different ferry.

And Sam was his best friend. He owed him that--at the very least. A week wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

As his father always said, family don’t end with blood--and Sam was his family, and a good man was always there for his family, which was another thing his father had said--before, well, just before.

~*~

“You want me to come with you?” Benny asked, thumbs trailing circles around Dean’s navel. “I can come. Make sure you always have someone safe to talk to.” He pressed his lips to Dean’s temple, his beard rough and coarse against his skin.

“I can’t ask that of you,” Dean mumbled. He curled in closer to Benny, breathing in the cool scent of him. Like mint toothpaste and the sea, because the sea was just outside, and he knew that Benny caught all the fish he served at his morning cafe himself. Dean traced his hairy chest over the pudge of his belly, going farther and farther down until Benny caught his hand and kissed his palm.

“You don’t need to. I’m volunteering. Like what’s-her-face in the Hunger Games.”

Dean smiled sadly. “But I can’t take the offer. I’m a big boy now, you know.” He hesitated. “Besides--it wouldn’t be right. I know the people who live there--my people. People who hunt more than just ghosts and demons.”

“My kind,” Benny said, and through his smile, Dean could see the neat pockets of gums that sheathed his fangs.

“Yeah.” Dean shook his head. “I’m not gonna be responsible if something bad were going to happen. I wouldn’t ask my brother if I had one to put himself in danger for me, and I sure as hell am not gonna ask you.”

“Someone more dear to you than a brother,” Benny said, gently nudging Dean’s ribs with his elbows. 

“You’re damn right,” Dean said.

And then Benny was straddling Dean, Dean’s legs circled tight around his waist, and they didn’t fuck because they had already fucked and Dean wouldn’t be ready to go again for a while, but they just held each other, and Benny stroked the high rises of his cheek with his thumbs and Dean clung to the meaty part of his arms like he didn’t know how to let go and maybe he didn’t maybe he didn’t want to maybe he didn’t have to. 

~*~

The cab pulled up to the docks, and Dean knew he should pull out his wallet from his pocket, pay the man, tip him well, get out, and make his way to the boat and the party, but his muscles wouldn’t move, as if his bones were filled with cement instead of marrow.

He looked over at the empty seat, wished he’d taken Benny up on his offer, then shook himself firmly. He was a big boy now. Distant, more an echo than a presence, his father’s voice said, man up, Dean.

Vaguely, distantly, he heard the cab driver speak. “You look familiar." 

The answer came by rote. “I grew up here, on the island.”

The cabby’s bright-eyed look as the light bulb of recognition went off. “I remember. You’re the sheriff’s sorta adopted kid. Made all the papers. Terrible shame about what happened. All those people. Heard you was lucky to be alive. Rest of your family dead, and all.” He shook his head like it was just the damndest thing.

And that was his cue to go, so Dean cleared his throat loudly as he could, and said, “What was the fare, again?” and then he paid it, and then he climbed out, dragging his small little suitcase with the wheels after him.

Dean stuffed his hands in the pockets of his very neat grey slacks, fingers tapping a rhythm against his thigh as he looked up at the boat, festooned in white veils and white roses. Guests mingled on the upper and lower decks. Sunlight glinted from champagne glasses. The party was already getting started, and he was here on the docks, his suitcase at his feet, sweating under his blue suspenders and waiting for his foot to take the necessary first step to bring him closer to the ferry that would bring him to the island that had once been his home.

The guests’ laughter drifted with the breeze. He couldn’t see their smiles, but he imagined they were bright. If they had been there all those years ago, they didn’t remember. If they hadn’t, they didn’t care. Why should they care? It had happened seven years ago, and murder was a familiar crime, something that happened all the time on the mainland, in the big cities like Los Angeles.

But the island was supposed to have been safe.

But then, murder was also a crime that people did so perhaps it wasn’t surprising at all.

He tugged at his thigh with his fingers, thin veils of pocket lining protecting his skin from his nails, and, with a sigh, shouldered his pack and walked slowly to the boat, eyes squinting from the force of the sun. 

He climbed the steps towards the upper decks--someone took his bag from him, and he let them. Then a voice, low and high at once, a disbelieving laugh-- “Dean?” 

And Dean turned, eyes landing on someone’s blue-denimed thighs that were already dashing down the stairs to meet him, gaze turning up and up as he followed the lithe slope of his waist, his chest wearing that purple shirt with the silver dog on the front, before finally landing on Sam’s face, eyes glinting from the sun, cheeks dimpled with laughter, and Dean barely had time to brace himself before he was lifted off his feet in Sam’s bear-hug embrace and god, he hadn’t been this tall, had he, when he’d left, no he hadn’t, and Dean--no shrimp himself--felt small as he found himself pushed against the wall by Sam’s enthusiasm.

Dean patted his back, awkwardly, at first, but then the pats slowed as he clutched Sam, hands gathering fistfuls of purple shirt, and then stopped altogether as he clung to him.

“I missed you,” Sam said. Then he pushed Dean away, hands heavy and solid on his shoulders as he peered down at Dean, and Dean found himself smiling up at him. “But I knew you’d come.” His palm stayed heavy on Dean’s shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist.” 

“You sure?” Dean said, almost breathless. “You’re acting like I was the last person you were expecting to see.” 

Sam slugged him softly on the shoulder. “Dude, you just wish you were that important.”

A soft click of strappy heels sounded somewhere by Dean’s ear, and he jerked his head up to see a woman clad in blue, pearls hanging from her neck and delicate wrists, blonde-streaked hair flying loose in the wind, staring down at him from the deck just above their heads. She smiled as broadly as Sam. “I’m assuming this is the Dean you’ve told me so much about?”

“Yeah,” Sam said, and for the first time, Dean noticed the massive diamond glittering on her finger.

“You must be Ruby,” he said, and because this is what guys did and this was how they joshed each other, added, “Aren’t you a little out of Sam’s league?” He dropped a wink at Sam, just so the joke would be explicitly clear.

“I must be,” Ruby said, her eyes following his gaze to her ring, “if diamonds make the bride. Which they do.” She took a long drink from her glass of bubbling champagne until it was empty. “And as for league, well.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Nobody is in my league. I’m one of a kind.” She lowered herself at the knee so that she could tap Sam’s nose with a black, lacquered nail. “I’m awesome.” Then, her front teeth biting into her bottom lip, she smiled as she handed Sam her empty glass.

“My wife to be,” Sam said. “Isn’t she gorgeous? And lazy?” 

“Hell yeah,” Dean said, clapping Sam on the shoulder. “Congratulations, Sammy.”

Sam’s cheeks flushed and he batted Dean away. “Don’t call me that like I’m some fifteen year old loser.”

“Like you’re not that same kid in the inside,” Dean said. He looked up again at Ruby. “Does he still eat those strips of rainbow sour candy?” 

Ruby laughed, but then put a finger to her lips. “I’ll never tell.” 

A voice, from somewhere beyond Dean’s eyesight, called out, “Picture time! Grab the bride and groom!”

And Sam pouted a put-upon a mien. “The perils of marrying into a rich family, Dean. They want to preserve it all and show off their pomp and circumstance to everyone with a smart phone.” He pulled Dean away so they stood shoulder to shoulder, heads inclined towards each other. “Try to have fun on the boat, okay? I’ll find you later.” But then, after only a few steps, he turned back around again. “Oh hey, why don’t you be my best man, since you’re the best anyway?”

Dean, feeling dizzy, smiled, emphasizing the upbeat inflection of his “but of course, you know it” so that Sam would smile again and leave with his new, pretty wife-to-be without looking back. Before he turned, he saw Sam swing his massive arms out in welcome, and heard him shout, “Uncle Crowley you made it!” 

Dean waited until he was sure that Sam was busy with official wedding business before climbing the stairs to join the rest of the party. There were so many people, and he wondered vaguely where Sam had met them all. Surely not on the island--their accents did not come from there. 

“Hello, Stranger,” someone said--a redhead in plaid over a pastel green tank top, both hands clutching beer bottles and her smile already lopsided with drink, freckles patterned even more heavily than his own over her cheeks and nose. She sauntered up to him, already barefoot. “You know--your face looks so familiar, but I’m having trouble placing the name.” She put her finger to her mouth and frowned deeply. “Could it be perhaps, Dean Who Fails To Keep In Touch?”

“Oh come on, Charlie, don’t be like that,” he said, forcing himself to smile. He brushed shoulders with her. “I thought for sure you of all people would get it.”

She took a long swig of her beer. “Oh you mean, me and you, we’re kindred spirits, because we ran away.”

“I didn’t run away,” Dean said. “I was sent away.”

“And stayed sent away!” Charlie said. Then she dazzled him with a smile. “Not that I blame you. Maybe one day, I’ll go back for good--but not this day,” she said, holding her empty beer in a toast to him. “Got tickets back home on the first flight Sunday morning.” She sidled in closer to him as a flock of bridesmaids fluttered past towards the end of the dock where they were all supposed to be taking pictures. “I’m thinking,” she said, “that the thing I like most about weddings, are the bride’s and groom’s lonely, single friends.”

She eyed two women who mingled with other members of the party, their hands entwined as they laughed and blushed and touched each other in vaguely intimate familiarity. Their dark hair was undone, their cheeks flushed. Legs already long, their strappy heels put them head and shoulders above most the guests, but judging from their smiles, they liked the way people had to look up to them.

They were so out of Charlie’s league.

“I don’t think they’re single,” Dean said, glancing down at Charlie who barely made it to his shoulder even when she wore her tallest shoes.

“Well you know what they say,” Charlie said. “Three’s company.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and swiped her tongue over her teeth. “How do I look? A plus? Awesome.” 

Without waiting to hear Dean’s answer, she pushed her beer into his hands, gave him two thumbs up, and swayed over to the happy couple. Dean was surprised to find that it was almost full--almost as if she had, perhaps, come over to share a drink with him but that the sight of two pretty faces had been too much for her. Taking a swig from one of the bottles, he could not begrudge her that. Besides, Charlie was a talker--the kind that actually expected reciprocal chat--and he didn’t really feel like talking much. 

Then he saw a familiar face leaning against the bar. He pushed his way through the crowds and said, “Hey, Victor--what’s up?” 

Victor Henriksen looked up--he grew a sparse goatee that highlighted the vulnerable jut of his jaw. “Dean?” Then he looked down at his shoes and laughed. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“Fancy seeing you,” Dean returned.

They looked at the festooned decks in silence. Dean offered one of the beers Charlie had handed to him and Victor took it, swigging deep before holding it absently in his hands. Dean took a sip of his own, licking at the tang that set in his mouth.

“I thought about looking for you,” Victor said. “But I figured if you wanted company, you’d just come back.” 

“I was just in Los Angeles,” Dean said, faltering.

“I know,” Victor said. He hugged his arms, his features pinched. Sad. “I just didn’t know where you were. Didn’t know if you were in a space that could come here tonight.”

“Didn’t know you would be,” Dean said. The bottle sweated messily in his hands. He put it down, rubbed his palms dry against his slacks. 

Victor nodded, short and hard. “I came prepared this time. I didn’t do what these other folks did,” he said, gesturing towards the laughing crowd. “They weren’t there like you and I were. It wasn’t just headline news to us, was it?” 

“Nope,” Dean said.

“I’m on track to be an FBI agent, Dean,” Victor said. “It’s not good enough for me that the asshole who did what he did on that island seven years ago is dead now. Not good enough by a long shot.” His hands clenched around his beer. “The law should have stopped him. Nobody just does that without a history. Nobody. And I’m gonna be the somebody that stops the next bastard who decides to go on a killing spree.” 

Dean swallowed hurriedly. Victor was right, and Victor was wrong but he didn’t feel up to explaining. It was too hard to explain. Instead, he looked at Victor’s long, slim, brown fingers, tried to imagine them holding a gun, and failed. “Do you still play the piano?” he said. 

Victor started, then laughed. “Yeah,” he said, “yeah I do. Not professionally--” he shrugged -- “but then that doesn’t matter, does it?”

Dean shook his head. “Nope. Just as long as you have fun with it.”

A woman came up to them, offered her hand to Victor, and asked him to dance with her. Victor said yes, and they joined the two women that Charlie had been eying in the middle of the deck in a makeshift dance floor while bubblegum pop blared from someone’s iPod.

A tightness crept in the wedges of Dean’s shoulders, and then spread into an ache that throbbed in his neck and temples. Dean strayed to the outer rim of the guests, where the water lapped at the ferry, and he wondered why they had not yet cast off. They would need to leave soon because the tides. That much, at least, he remembered.

A crowd of either teenagers or twenty-somethings down on their luck looking for their big break huddled together towards the stern. Dean wondered who they might be--they didn’t seem the sort that Sam would hang with or that Ruby--what little he saw of her--would hang with either.

Him? His standards for what was considered polite society was considerably lower, and he figured that the chances of possibly scoring a joint from them ranged from pretty good to most certainly. As he neared their company, he saw that one of their members handled a digital camera for recording video.

“Put that away,” a girl said. “Or else I’m going to laugh at you when a wave crashes over and gets it all wet. After I’m done kicking you in the shins,” she added fiercely, “since it was most of my money that bought it for you.”

The one with the camera--a young man with a gold beard in desperate need of a shave, gestured broadly. “My adopted sister Maggie everybody. Thinks she can boss me around.” 

“Shut up, Ed,” Maggie snarled.

“Hey guys,” Dean said, hoping to break up what might turn into a verbal altercation which would probably be inappropriate, if inevitable, on a wedding boat while getting a little something to numb the ache that wasn’t more alcohol since he knew how far and dark that road got.

Ed pushed the camera into another boy’s arms and brushed his palms against each other. “Yeah, and you are?”

“Dean,” he said, holding out his hand, his silver ring glinting in the sun. The group eyed him but didn’t take it. So he gestured to the camera. “So, did Sam hire you to film the wedding?”

Ed scrambled to his feet, and the other boy scrambled with him, clutching the camera to his stomach. Another boy, one with shaggy hair, stood wearily with them. “We’re not wedding photographers or wedding filmers,” he said. “What we do is so much more important.” He raised his eyebrows at Dean, widened the spread of his stance. “We document the supernatural. We capture the things that people say don’t exist in the dark.” He took a step closer to Dean, finger stabbing against his sternum, beer heavy on his breath. “Well, they do buddy. And we’re here to prove it. And to get famous and make lots of money and meet a lot of chicks.”

Goosebumps pricked Dean’s skin, and he licked his lips. “Really?”

“Darn straight,” the other boy said, the one with the dark hair. “Everybody will know who we are. We’re gonna be hollywood famous. We’ll have a hollywood star. Like Sarah Michelle Gellar.”

“Nincompoop,” Maggie said, “she doesn’t have a star.”

“Well she should from her work on Buffy,” Ed said, voice high and strained.

The words welled thick in Dean’s throat. “But why come to the island? There’s nothing there but trees and too much deer.”

Ed and the other boy exchanged a disbelieving glance between them. “Hear what he said, Harry?” In distorted inflection and a higher pitched voice, fingers making harsh air quotes, “Nothing but trees and too much deer.” He scoffed, then turned back to Dean. “Ever hear of the John Winchester murders, buddy? No, I’m not surprised. You don’t look the type.” He snapped his fingers, and Harry sprang to attention. “Run it through for us.”

“We did our homework, you see,” Harry said, voice eager, words tripping over each other. “We knew that John Winchester was a family man, a --”

The words ceased when Ed raised his hand. “Skip the boring parts, buddy.” 

“Oh right. Well anyway, it’s the island, you know.” Harry licked his lips, leaned towards Dean, who backed away. “The John Winchester murders.” He nodded his head. “The acts of a mad man or--” he paused for dramatic effect -- “something not of this natural world?”

The words feeling like cardboard in his mouth, thick and difficult to say, Dean mumbled, “A man.”

 Ed snapped his fingers. “Maybe!”

“We found eyewitness reports on the internet that said the devil made him do it. Literally. They say they smelled sulfur as he passed and that his eyes gleamed yellow--unnatural. So,” Harry said, smiling slyly, “we’re gonna go to the tree he strung up all those people from, and we’re gonna call their souls, and--”

Ed stomped on his foot and Harry shut up instantly. “So that’s why the island. Pretty cool huh? But hey, what do we know. Probably just too much deer.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered and he hid his badly shaking hands behind his back so he could twist at his ring. “Only if you weren’t there,” he said, but perhaps he said it too quietly as the boys began to bicker amidst themselves. They wouldn’t be able to raise anyone—Sheriff Mills and Dean and Kevin had made sure of that with the deep graves they’d dug for the victims, their buckets of salt, and the fires they’d lit, that they’d held vigil over, that---

“Hey, you okay, man?” Ed said, right up in his face. “You scared or something?”

“I think I just need a little pick me up. I don’t suppose any of you’ve got any weed on you?” He prayed that they’d say yes. His fingers needed something to do. His mouth needed something to keep it occupied so he wouldn’t bite his cheeks, so he wouldn’t get a second bottle of beer or something harder.

Ed backed up, his mouth open in an oh, his brows raised as high as they could. “Come on, dude. What do you take us for? This right here?” And he pivoted in a circle. “We’re professionals. This isn’t amateur hour. Pal.”

“My mistake,” Dean said, and left.

He heard them laughing as he turned away, he heard Ed shouting into the breeze, “Can Meg’s brother hurry the fuck up already so we can all leave and get this party started?" 

He headed for where they kept the beer in the cooler--he didn’t like champagne. Too fancy. Too sweet. He didn’t know who Meg was or who her brother was but he hoped he wouldn’t delay the voyage too much longer.

But the cooler was empty when he pushed his way through--and he scrubbed his palm over his mouth. This was probably for the best. But still.

“It sounds like you could use a drink, handsome,” someone said in a lilting English accent. He turned, and saw one half of the couple Charlie had been eyeing and was now, apparently, vaguely trailing as their eyes met over the woman’s shoulder. “Why don’t you have some of mine?”

A delicate necklace of what looked like diamonds glinted against the hard lines of her collar bones.

He took the proffered beer, and made sure to drink where there was no mark of plum lipstick. “Thank you,” he said as he handed it back to her.

“No need,” she said. Then she held out her hand. “Bela Talbot.”

He took it, and her hands lingered over his, her soft skin against his soft skin, and his eyes jerked to her before he slipped his hand away.

She laughed, then turned as she was joined by her partner. “And this is Sarah,” Bela said. “My partner in crime.” 

Sarah rolled her eyes.

“Friends of the bride?” Dean asked.

“No,” Sarah said. “I met Sam in college.”

Dean blinked. “Sam went to college?” 

“Stanford to be a lawyer. But then he met Ruby and I suppose he gave it all up.” She looked over her shoulder. “Unsurprising of course. I understand the appeal of a trust fund.”

“She has one herself,” Bela said. “So she should definitely know.”

“And what about you?” Dean asked. “You a trust fund baby too?”

Bela laughed, loud, her head thrown back, her hair curling at her nape, her neck, falling along the lines of her clavicle. “Darling, I don’t need one.”  She took one last sip and then handed the beer to Dean. “Here, you can take this. I don’t need it either.” Then she left him with Sarah beside her, and they only split their ways so they could brush between Charlie, and Dean thought he’d never seen her go so red before.

“Not a word,” Charlie hissed, “not a word.” Then she took the beer that Bela had given him and went to look out over the water like there was something there besides grey skies.

He went to see if he could find Sam or perhaps another familiar face. He found him, gathered with his family and friends--the wedding party, he assumed--near the front of the boat, still posing for a photographer. 

Ruby and Sam stood in the center, she against his torso, head bent against his shoulder, his mouth tracing the contours of her neck as her eyes fell to half mast, her smile losing its shape and becoming slack. 

Dean shifted his eyes away.

Another couple stood behind them--a woman all in white, her smile dazzling, her hair blonde and curled over her shoulders. An older man with salt and pepper hair and a nicely cut suit that probably cost too much money. Ruby’s parents, perhaps? But the woman, though she clung to her arm, sought for someone else--he saw her eyes rove before lighting on someone (he could not see who in the throng), mouth smiling softly. 

Fanned to Sam’s left were, Dean assumed, his best men, which actually included Charlie, he saw to his surprise, who joined the group, bottle of beer slack in her hand. He hadn’t realized they were that close. She stood closest, dwarfed by him, her small body swaying in his shadow as she tried to appear less drunk than she was. Behind her, was Victor, looking bored as he scrolled through his phone. Kevin Tran--Dean’s stomach lurched--stood beside Victor, not even nearing his shoulders. He cleaned his glasses, and he too looked as if he’d had too much to drink and that this was the last place on earth he’d rather be.

Not that Dean could blame him. He reached for his ring to twist it--and saw that it was gone. His breath skittered in his chest, and he shoved his hands back into his pocket, twisting the fabric around his finger, cursing that he’d lost it, probably lost it overboard or something but he was so sure--so sure it had been safe, it fit too snugly it---

He shook himself, forced himself to concentrate on the wedding party assembling for the photo.

A woman in a purple, low hung shirt, black jeans, and punk leather boots stood beside Ruby, her elbow leaned casually on her shoulder as she also scrolled her phone.

Jo Harvelle lingered in the back. He wondered if she and Ruby knew each other, or if she was doing Sam a favor. He remembered Jo and Ellen--Jo eventually cleaning the fishing boats as summer work while Ellen worked the Roadhouse. He couldn’t imagine Jo hanging out in the same circles as Ruby, yet here she was, a bridesmaid. 

Dean shifted his gaze back to Ruby, who was still letting Sam attend to her. His hand was sprawled against her belly, pulling her flush against him. Maybe Ruby wasn’t the kind of rich girl who kept to her own circles. Maybe she did leave their mansion and hung with the locals smelling of fish and dirt and beer from the Roadhouse. Maybe that’s how Jo and Ruby had become friends. 

Did they want her there? Or did they tolerate her there because really, what do you say to someone like Ruby, to someone from a family like hers? To someone who could buy you out of your own business at a moment’s notice?

The photographer called for them to settle down and they did and the camera went off and there was a cheer and Sam laughingly calling uncle, uncle, that there be no more pictures for the love of all things holy. 

Then the dock shifted beneath their feet, a whistle blew and Dean was halfway ducking for cover when he realized what it was, that it meant nothing, and they were finally, casting off. What he was not, expecting, however, was to find his arms full as a woman, hair burning fire-bronzed and phoenix-red leaped across the widening gap as the boat pulled free of his moorings, one hand clutching a Starbucks coffee cup2, the other keeping her Red Sox baseball cap close to her head as her feet slid across the damp deck smack into Dean.

Somehow, no coffee spilled from the cup.

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” she said, standing up on tiptoe so she could peer over his shoulder, so she hadn’t really gotten a good look at his face. “Technically, I wasn’t invited, so they didn’t know they were to wait for me. But so it goes3, right?” she said, clapping him on the forearm as he stared dumbly at her, and their eyes met for the first time.

“Anna?” he asked, his voice numb because this was unbelievable, this was--he hadn’t heard from Anna in ages, he’d--

“Oh my god, Dean!” and she brushed a dry, chaste kiss to his cheek. “You must be wondering why I’m here--” she laughed nervously -- “funny story. Apparently I’m distantly related to the happy couple. Sister of the brother-in-law, you know. Or something. Everything is a little confusing still." 

“I didn’t know you had any family,” Dean said. “You said that--”

She nodded, vigorously, fine muscles in her face titching with stress, like she used to get when she was waiting to hear back from some sci fi magazine about a short story. “Oh I know what I said. Apparently I was wrong. I just found out recently--news sort of stunned me.” She took a deep gulp of her coffee as he eyes landing on the laughing merry party below, already loose with drink. “God save us all,” she whispered.

~*~

If they had chosen to, at that moment to look back, the guests would have seen red blooming through the churning slosh of the water, farewell ribbons of gore, trailing after them until there was no more blood to spill, and only the sharks knew that someone had died.

~*~

Anna dragged Dean to her own side of the family--only tenuously held together by blood affiliation from what Dean could gather--introducing him to Castiel, her sullen, grumpy surprise of a brother, who was already buried in drink, arms folded across his trench coat, the knot of his tie crookedly slipped down, top buttons of his white collared shirt unbuttoned, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, and then finally Meg, darling in purple and punk in spiked boots.

Cas stared up at Anna, his eyes cold. “What are you doing here?”

“Introducing you to a friend,” Anna said, pushing Dean his way.

Cas took a sip of his beer, and deliberately belched in Dean’s general direction. Meg rolled her eyes. “Clarence here didn’t want to come,” she said. “So he’s poisoning the mood for everybody.” 

“Clarence?” Dean said. “I thought--”

“Oh, he used to be such an angel when we met,” Meg said. “But then the honeymoon phase faded and here we are.” She wrapped her arms around him and planted a sloppy, exaggerated kiss on his cheek.

Cas turned from the beer to her, his hands sliding from his beer and dropping under the table, his shoulders moving towards Meg, and Dean imagined those hands running up her thigh and, as her smile turned into a half-gasped leer, probably elsewhere, and he flushed promptly pink.

“He thinks he’s such a bad boy,” Meg said, breathily. “But he’s really not all that.”

Her mouth turned downwards in a pout as his hands reappeared above the table again, reaching for the slick glass of his beer bottle. Dean coughed awkwardly, casting his eyes around for a safe face, and sought out Anna, who was biting her lips, staring at the slope of Meg’s neck, slender as a tower of David. She licked her lips, mouth fumbling for the lip of her coffee as she took another sip.

“You wanna beer?” Cas said.

“Yeah,” Dean said because it sounded easier than saying no.

Cas got up, and disappeared into a throng. They waited and waited but he never came back.  Anna suggested they look for him, Meg agreed, and they left hand in hand, never turning back to see if Dean wanted to come along, for which he was grateful since he didn’t.

Cas seemed kind of like a dick.

Instead, he wandered to the outer sides of the deck, where the wind nipped a little colder, and so did not particularly welcome guests to come and mingle along its metal railing.

The island loomed closer on the horizon, a mote filling Dean’s eyes, pressuring against them until they wept. He grabbed a glass of champagne, lukewarm with half-hearted bubbles, and drained it down, the buzz flooding his stomach before souring into guilt.  

He’d promised himself that he wouldn’t drink too much on this trip.

He leaned against the rail, forehead beading with sweat, and tried to breathe steadily, counting his breaths until his heartbeat steadied, until Victor touched his shoulder hesitantly, “You okay, man?”

The boat was docked. All he had to do was leave with everybody else, find his room, and crash for the night.

Dean nodded, then turned when he heard the heaving sound of someone vomiting over the side. It was Kevin, holding his belly, and they both went to him. Dean grabbed a square of white towel, lacy napkin things appropriate for the nearly married couple, and handed it to Kevin who wiped his mouth.

Victor pulled out a pack of spearmint gum and handed Kevin two pieces.

“I was just remembering,” he said. “Deputy Garth’s face, remember? And coughing on the smoke, and seeing the--seeing the--”

“I remember,” Dean said, pulling Kevin’s shoulder so that they were walking briskly off the boat, following the rest of the drunken, laughing guests. “Don’t think about that. Think about all the pretty faces. Weddings are great places to meet people.” Or so he’d heard.

“I have a girlfriend,” Kevin said. “Her name’s Channing. She’s never even heard of the John Winchester murders.”

That was the appeal of moving far, far away from everything. Nobody knew anything and in a city like Los Angeles, they didn’t care, even if they did know.

Looking at the people laughing now, he wondered how they could. How they could have forgotten. How they had learned to not be so sad.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then scrubbed his palm down his jaw. He needed a cold shower to wash his face. He needed a hot shower to scald the dirt from the forest where he’d crawled on his knees, scared and whimpering, his body, from under his fingernails, from the thick bone shielding his marrow--he’d never be clean. 

“You two gonna be okay?” Victor asked as they walked down the docks, inland. 

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said, pulling the string of words, tasting stale from rote.

“Me too,” Kevin said. “Just sea-sickness, you know?”

“Right. The sea,” Victor said, rolling his eyes. “It gets too tough, you don’t have to stay you know. You don’t owe them anything.”

“Are they so rich,” Kevin said, his words slurring together, “that they have another sea in their backyards?" 

“Nope,” Dean said, slipping his hand in Kevin’s and squeezing as they made their way down the length of dock. “Just a swanky swimming pool with the chairs on the side, all cushioned up under their thick sun umbrellas drinking their drinks with the pastel parasols stuck on ice.”

“That sounds so good,” Kevin said. “Just the thing right now.”

“And they even have a kitchen to serve you up a grease with a side of grease and bacon for lunch for that.”

“Why not just a bottle of Gatorade?”

“Maybe just,” Dean said. He would have said more, but the heavy smell of fish and guts and blood filled his mouth and he choked off, struggling to breathe through it, through the lingering taint of it as John Winchester had raised his head spade and--

“I don’t know how Mike does it,” Victor said, his palm over his nose and mouth, brows frowning deep. 

Dean saw him then, saw Mike at his usual place on the docks--thick and muscular and draped in the heavy, rubber aprons all the butchering fishermen wore4. He had already fallen into the rhythm, reaching for the day’s catch, letting it fall with a slap, the fish limp and gone, the knife raised, slashing off the head, then gutting the body, skilled as any doctor, eviscerating from the inside out, smile on his face as he listened to the music in the white earbuds nestled in his ears, smile so wide it was easy to think he was just someone who took pride in his work, who enjoyed the mess, and Dean, hands already curling to fit the shape of the cleaver he too had held once upon a time, flexed his fingers against his thigh. 

He’d gotten out. He was safe now.

The carousing of the mostly-drunken wedding party caused Mike to jerk his head up, and he was flashing his grin at them, the one that was all white because he brushed his teeth three times a day that nerd kid, and waved his hand, thick in the glove and slick from the fish, and said hey, hey, hey how you doing to one or few of the ladies, maybe his friends, c’mon, come give us a hug and they squealed and he laughed and he was about to turn aside when his eyes fell on Dean, and his faced turned to paper as he bent his head down, his rhythm lost, and he flayed the fish, their scales ripped from their bodies, clinging to the blood on his apron, glittering in the sun.

Dean walked towards him, words stringing themselves into sentences of rote, _Hey Mike, how are you_. The fish was strong in his nose, present in his mouth. _Nice weather we’ve been having_. One step towards another, drawing him closer. _You doing okay?_ Ten paces away. _Got a boyfriend? Got a girlfriend? Got a someone-friend?_ His teeth bit into his lips, and there was still that dimple in his chin. _Hey, Mike. You wanna hang out? Sorry, poor choice of words_. Blood slashed the front of his rubber apron. _Hey Mike, been a while, huh? Sorry I never called you. Or emailed you. Or texted you. You told me don’t go, but then I did, and never came back, even though you never wanted me to. Do you forgive me?_ Face to face now, Mike still glaring down, the fish soft and tender and bruised and red. Dean, beside him now, stood above him, because Mike never got his growth spurt. “Hey.”

The knife bit into the board through the fish. “Hey.”

Dean swallowed at the crunch of blade against bone. “You’ve gotten good at that.” 

“Been doing it since I was a kid, I oughta be good at it.” The knife rested heavy in his palms.

Dean went through the litany he’d rehearsed in the too few steps it took him to reach this point. “You doing okay?”

Mike looked at him then. “Maybe you’d know, if you’d bothered to write. Or call. Or text.” He shrugged.

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.” Dean relaxed into this conversation. He’d had it with himself and a wall and a bottle of beer over the sy fy wrestling a million times.

“Could have asked.” Mike grunted, reached for another fish. Its eyes gleamed dead and mean. 

“So could you,” Dean said. He blinked. That was supposed to be a postscript. Parenthetical. Italicized. Thought, not spoken. He ducked his eyes low, looking at his feet instead of the fish. But it sounded good, hanging in the air like that, between them. “So could you,” he repeated, just to hear it thrum between them, airing itself in the morning air, rising high above the stench of the fish. “So could you.”

“Broken record much?” Mike said.  A lopped fish head fell to their feet, staring wretchedly between them.

Dean’s stomach retched, and he slipped his hand under his jacket to hold it, like that would keep anything in.

“You left, Dean,” Mike said, the knife biting accusing periods into the ends of its words as it struck the board, sick slide of flesh accenting the vowels. “You left me, Dean. You left without even saying goodbye.” 

“I was really messed up, man,” Dean said, not looking at either Mike or the fish, his eyes sliding over an indefinable patch of air somewhere over his shoulder. He wanted to tell Mike that Jody had made him go, but he couldn’t. Mike would just call him a pussy, or worse, even if he meant it in jest (but did he really mean it in jest or did he just mean it?)

“You think I wasn’t? You think I didn’t need you? You left--so you didn’t have to watch this stupid town heal, and you know how messy healing can be, and how the hurt never goes away, and the scars might fade, but they’ll always be there.”

Dean blinked his eyes, surprised, almost, to find they were wet. Crying already, and he’d just barely stepped foot back home. He palmed his jaw, but was spared the indignity of saying that he was sorry, that he knew it was his fault that their relationship could never be the same, or that it could never have grown into something worthwhile, not riddled rotten with spats and fights and the coulda-shoulda dones, by the roaring rev of a motorcycle.

Both Mike and Dean looked towards the sound, and Dean blinked when he saw her, Abbie, Abbie with her scarlet hair and her freckles, no longer running around in torn up blue jeans and dirty white tees but black leather jackets over her loose-off-the-shoulder come hither and get it black shirt and black combo boots crunching over gravel.

“This tourist bothering you?” she said, her words slicking through her red lipsticked mouth.

“See,” Mike said, turning back to Dean, “you’re a stranger to your home.”

“Abbie,” Dean said, voice faint, “nice to see you again.”

Recognition sparked in her eyes. “Well, you sure grew up pretty, didn’t you, Dean? Pretty and heartless.” She bit her lips, licked the red that came away from her teeth with a long tongue. “I bet we could have a little fun.”

Dean took a step back, hands reaching into his pocket for the aviator shades with their reflective lens.

“Sun glasses? In Washington state?” She leaned in closer. “Don’t hide those pretty eyes from me. I want to see them wrecked and weeping.”

“Why? So you can write bad poetry about them?” Dean said, wishing his macabre wit wasn’t sinking helplessly in the sea of nausea currently churning in his stomach. She was too close--she could reach out and touch him, she could put two of her fingers, nails pin-up red, against the thin skin of his wrist, she could trail her hand down his arm--hard enough to feel the warm pressure of it against his jacket and his plaid shirt--she could do anything. Panic squeezed his ribcage.

Her red lips curved around her sharp white teeth. “I can think of more tangible things to with them.”

Mike tugged her back by her shoulder, and she went along with his pull, reluctantly. “No need to scare him on my account, Abbie.”  

She licked her lip with her bubble-gum pink tongue. “Whatever you say, Mike. Though why you’re defending the guy who broke your heart without a second thought is more than my guess.” She strapped her helmet over her fire-forged curls before swinging her leg over her motorcycle, and revving the engine. “Why don’t you meet me for a beer later when you’re not too busy mooning over Dean here.” Tires squealed against the pavement, kicking up the dirt and mud of the day before, splattering Dean in his pinstriped slacks.

“What the hell?” Dean said.

“You know how Abbie is,” Mike said, turning back to his fish. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t all be friends, like we were before.”

Dean swallowed around the dry desert in his throat. “I’m not--I’m not staying, Mike.”

Mike’s fingers clenched around the knife’s handle just a little bit tighter, the rhythm of his work faltering, but then resuming at a faster, harder pace. “You’re not coming home?”

“I’m just visiting. L.A is my home now.”

A plastic smile stretched his face. “The wedding lasts for a week. That’s a long time to change your mind.”

“Mike--” Dean said. “Don’t make this hard, okay?”

“I’m not making it hard,” Mike said, wiping his hands on his rubber apron. “I’m just saying that a week is a long time. Anything could happen." 

Dean licked his lips, head turned down towards the floor. Sloppy fish remains scattered the ground. “I’ll see you later, okay?" 

“Only if you get lucky,” Mike said with a wink, before lopping the head off the last of his fish and gutting it clean.

~*~

Dean shoved his hands in his slacks so that he would not see them trembling. His thumb went to spin the silver ring that should have been on his fourth finger but then he remembered that the ring was gone, and he stroked the dimpled skin instead.

It could have fallen into the ocean. Or the taxi cab.

No, he was certain he had been fiddling with it after all that.

The wedding party had already departed in their little train of go-go carts, and he followed behind in their muddy tracks. It was a grey high noon, and he wore his sunglasses still even though he hardly needed them. There was no sun from which to shield his eyes, and he missed the sun, he missed that sheer slide of sunshine between his eyes, carving the self from his bones.

He recognized the curve of the road, and he followed it off the beaten path, striking through the underbrush, through the thick foliage he had crashed through as a child, yelling and waving sticks with Sam, chasing each other round and round until they flopped on the hard ground, stones in the smalls of their backs, watching the sky whirl as their heads spun.

The same foliage he had crawled through on hands and knees, hiccupping with fear until he had crawled under the shadow of the Hanging Tree, the one the kids hung with may-streamers, the one they hung up their birthday piñatas, bats swinging and candy spilling, the one they hung with toilet paper and plastic, leering jackolanterns on Halloween, the one they lit up with lights on Christmas eve just for the one night because electricity was expensive and generators were heavy, the one where, on a hot, muggy, August day heavy with heat and humidity and swelled with unshed rain, Dean Winchester had found his mother hanging by the neck, swinging and spinning slowly from her weight as fluids leaked from the gash in her side and her mouth and next to her had hung old Mr. Tran, face fixed in a grimace of fear, and beside him, splayed too wide with broken limbs, Mrs. Bell and--

\--and Dean found himself on his knees in the mud in his once clean, pressed slacks, fist scrabbling at the bones of his ribcage to still the panicked beating of his heart, his throat clamping down on air as it hiccoughed dry sobs, and his eyes squeezed shut as it replayed over and over the imagery of all those people, all those people hanging from the Hanging Tree still hung with the sun-faded may streamers they’d been too lazy to climb up and untie--

One of the bodies had fallen, the weight too heavy for a limb, had fallen with a sound like someone dying a second time, had hit the ground with a wet splat and--

a twig snapped behind him and Dean scuttled towards the nearest bush to hide, to--

and then Sam reached Dean, his warm palm broad and comforting and here, and Dean leaned into Sam, into the broad width of him, breathed in the left over beer and the vague hint of fish still clinging to his boots where had strode through Mike’s work.

“We should have chopped this thing down ages ago,” Sam said, turning Dean’s head away from it and guiding him back towards the main road. 

“It wasn’t the tree’s fault, Sam,” Dean said. 

“Nobody comes here anymore,” Sam said, “did you know? No kids. Everything’s up at the Residence now. Or the Roadhouse. We chop down a tree and bring it to the Roadhouse and keep it lit for a week.”

“But what about the kids?” Dean said. “The birthday parties.”

Sam pinched his lips together. “There aren’t anymore kids here, Dean. They all grew up. Or they left, like you and Kevin and Victor.” They were at the road now, and Sam stopped them, put his hands on Dean’s shoulder, towering over him even though Dean wasn’t short stuff, and said, “I know you weren’t a kid when you left but we weren’t grown either. We missed you guys. Felt like another wound, you know, when you left.”

“I was sent away,” Dean said, pushing past Sam. “I didn’t leave on my own.”

“Then that means you can stay, Dean,” Sam said. “You’re not that kid anymore who has to do what anybody tells you to.”

Dean rubbed his palm through his hair. “I can’t talk about this right now, Sam. I just. I need to get to my room and have a beer or something.”

Sam slumped a little, before smiling a small smile at Dean. “I think I can help with that.” He let Dean lead the way, then fell into step beside him, long arms swinging at his side. “So get this,” he said, “did you hear how Anna Milton crashed the party to give Cas, her brother, a hard time? Well, apparently, she and Ruby used to date in college.” He shook his head, soft little grunts of disbelief passing through his thin lips. “Can you believe Ruby never told me?” 

“Maybe that’s why she didn’t send out the invitation,” Dean said. “Didn’t want any awkwardness.”

“Maybe she did send out an invitation. I can’t tell. Anna is acting like she didn’t receive one but--Ruby didn’t act like she didn’t send one--just surprised that she showed up at all.” He bit his lip, eyebrows in a worried pucker. “You think I should be worried, Dean?” 

Dean remembered all his relationships that had crashed and burned. Lisa and Gordon and Mike so why on god’s green earth would Sam feel like the right thing to do would be to go to him for advice--not that he knew about all those other relationships, of course, but still. “I think that if you’re worried, then something else might be wrong. You trust Ruby, don’t you, and Ruby trusts you so, you know?” 

“You’re right--I just.” He pulled his fingers through his hair, eyes averted. At over six feet tall, he somehow managed to look small, and Dean was aware of the space he took up beside Sam. “Sometimes, I think that I must be the worst person, the smallest of all of you, and they’re all going to leave before I make it up to them.”

Dean stared at his shoes, at the mud on his once fine slacks. His hands were buried in his pocket, thumb sliding over the pale moon of flesh, shielded from the sun, mildly welted by the chafing of the ring. What was he supposed to say to something like that? 

“I’m just really glad you’re here now,” Sam said. “It’ll be like we’re brothers again.” 

Dean shoved him gently in the shoulder. “Yeah. Definitely.” They had been like brothers. They’d hung out like brothers. Teased each other like brothers. Fallen out like brothers, and come back again like brothers. “There’s a party on the beach tomorrow, right?” he said.

“Yeah. Why?”

“We should all get really, really--and I mean really--drunk.”

“Okay, big guy,” Sam said, wrapping his arms around Dean’s shoulders. “We’ll see about that, okay?”

~*~

If Tamara had known the ferry was going to be populated with a wedding party devoted to good cheer, she would have waited for another boat. But she had slunk in the shadows, arms folded tight against her chest, nursing a rum and coke that made her head light and burned her throat on the way down, a gut warming buzz of carbonation and alcohol.

It didn’t make her forget.

It made her remember that Isaac’s favorite drink had been a long island iced tea—an indulgence in their line of work.

The bar probably had one. She could pretend to be a wedding guest again and they’d probably give her another drink for free.

Except she hated Long Islands and Isaac was dead so there wasn’t much point. 

She drained her glass again and swayed against the bannister. The demon who’d killed her husband had told her she had a rage inside of her, and that demons could respect something like that. One of the deadly sins, they told her. 

Well, she’d never claimed to be a saint and she didn’t care what a demon said, except for the way she kept hearing its voice, taunting her over her husband’s dead body.

Of course she was angry. Who wouldn’t be angry about that? Who wouldn’t be angry about the death of her daughter, about the death of her husband? 

She would burn hell to the ground if it wasn’t already on fire.

Then she’d burn heaven too for its pearly gates.

She brushed away the tears that filled her eyes impatiently, and she was still brushing them away even now as she walked through the forests of the island she’d once called home.

It hadn’t been called Dante’s Island then.

Its real name, its first name, she’d forgotten. She frowned. How could that be? How could she forget her home?

She walked through the dark forest paths, the silver stars clear and shining like they never did in the cities. She didn’t know anything about stars. She had pointed out Orion’s Belt to Rebekah, when she’d been small, and that’d been it. 

Isaac knew the Big Dipper.

Their skills hadn’t been with the sky, but with the earth. If she went to her old home now, the home they’d left after the John Winchester murders, after Sheriff Jody Mills had established the truce without explanation as to why, after she and Isaac had left when Gordon Walker had stayed, she was sure she would find a wild garden with blooming flowers of the kind she’d woven into wreaths for her daughter’s hair. 

John Winchester had taken her baby girl.

And the sheriff hadn’t cared. 

Tamara covered her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound of a sob. Never knew what monsters might be lurking the forest, with their keen ears.

Never knew it’d still hurt this bad, all these years later. Didn’t anything ever heal?

She’d given the place to Missouri, and she knew she’d take good care of it. As she walked up the path, she saw that her trust had not been misplaced. And, in fact, off to the side, she saw a new addition that Missouri must have added to the land—a bee hive. 

She wondered if they had harvested any of the honey, how old it was. 

Maybe she’d ask, once she gathered up the courage to knock.

She rapped her knuckles once against the wood, and then let it drop. Almost as if Missouri had known she’d come (she was a psychic after all), the door opened almost immediately, and Missouri held her arms open. “I’m so glad you’ve come home, honey,” she said in her soft voice, tender with sympathy.

Tamara fell into her arms, clutching Missouri tightly, burying her head against her shawls smelling of sandalwood and jasmine, clutching at the soft fabric.

“I had nowhere else to go,” she said, her own voice thick.

Missouri guided her to the couch, a steaming cup of chamomile tea already waiting for her. “You can always come here. You know that.”

Tamara wiped her tears away, and then settled for staring hard at Missouri. Behind her, Pamela stood, cradling her own cup of tea. She wasn’t wearing her sunglasses or her white-glazed seer eyes. Tamara looked quickly away. “I need to talk to him.”

“Isaac?” Missouri’s face wrinkled. “ Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Tamara’s hid her face behind taking a long gulp of tea that scorched the alcohol in her system, cleared her head. “They never let me say goodbye.”

“He might not answer,” Missouri said. “They don’t always.”

“I don’t care,” Tamara said. “I need to. It’s just something I need.”

Missouri nodded, and reached for her hand, holding it lightly in hers. “Do you want to do it now? Or later?”

Tamara squeezed her eyes shut, regretting the alcohol she’d imbibed on the ferry over. She wanted to be clear-headed for this. “Later,” she said. “It’s not like he’s going anywhere.”

“No,” Missouri said. “It’s not like he is.” 

Then Pamela and Missouri made up the couch with the afghans that Pamela had crocheted – colors clashing because Pamela had chosen the yarn by touch and not by color—and Tamara fell into an uneasy sleep, where she relived Isaac’s death, until she woke in cold sweats and fell again into nightmares.

~*~

The Residence stood at the top of a broad hill with grassy slopes, good for golfing and possibly tomfoolery if there had been kids around, but there just weren’t any kids, like Sam had said. But it wasn’t quiet--there were still shrieks of laughter, the crash of something small and delicate and special breaking, the echoing gasps, the ardent, _it wasn’t me, it wasn’t my fault, how could you even blame me_ echoing along the halls as Dean found the key to his room, opened the door, and fell face downward to the bed with a tiny, plump plop of soft belly against softer quilts. Sleep cast against him like iron, and he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t probably go ahead and grab the salt, line the doors with it, just in case--but then the thought passed and the sun finally shone through the lace curtains, lighting on his freckles, and warming his entire length to his very bones, ushering him into deep slumber.

~*~

Across the hall, Charlie Bradbury sat on the edge of her bed, thin hands clasped in her lap, teeth gnawing her lips as she jittered her knees, phone bouncing from them and tumbling to the carpet with an accusing thunk. Charlie ignored the phone, but stood up and found the small refrigerator beside the bed, filled with cheap beer and cheaper wine. She grabbed the small bottles of alcohol, barely the size of her palm, and swallowed them down with one gulp, two at a time.

It’d been too long since she’d been here. It wasn’t home, it’d never been home, but her family had had a house here, and they’d lived there since she was born but they hadn’t been living there at the time of the murders even though their family name was on the house, and she’d gone to school with high speed internet and she hadn’t looked back and now here she was, her 4G network unable to penetrate the murk and the fog and there was nothing to connect her to the computers she’d normally be hacking into right at this moment.

There wasn’t even a computer worth hacking in this hellhole of someone’s back yard.

Her fingers typed across her bare knees, finding their rhythm.

She didn’t have to be here.

She could see Madison.

Madison who’d snarled something with her wolf-face and her wolf-tongue and had left her in the woods, her moon-lit eyes twin predator death stars5 in the gloom of the forest as she fled, and Charlie had gone home right after she’d found out what Madison had become, climbed into the scalding hot shower, and looked over her arms and her belly and her thighs and the vulnerable yield of her neck in the plumes of steam for a bite, for any bite, had waited for her bones to break into something new, something old, something strong, waited for the wolf’s howl building up in her stomach to release itself to the moon, but none of that had happened.

Instead, a wet, shivering girl had slopped out of the shower and brushed her teeth and went to bed even though she kept the light on in case Madison came back to finish their sleepover. But Madison had never come back even though they’d kissed in their parents basement and it had been something, it had been, hadn’t it. 

What had happened that night? Why hadn’t Madison told her earlier? Hadn’t given Charlie space to be scared when she’d found out that her best friend was a werewolf?

Like that’s not something you just get over.

Charlie’s face twisted. Seven years too late, she knew what she’d done wrong. Being bit by a werewolf wasn’t a walk in the park. Madison had been assaulted, and Charlie hadn’t even cared.

What hope of forgiveness was there for that? 

She put her hand to her mouth, smelling of lilacs from the cream she slathered into her skin, her skin that hated this grey, wet weather, which made it even worse but there had been purple petals caught in Madison’s matted hair when she’d come to her house the next morning, swathed in someone’s gaudy, rose-splattered sheets, and she’d said, _I’m sorry, I didn’t know that would happen, Charlie are you okay, I didn’t hurt you, did I?_

And Charlie had been cool about it, had been a good friend she’d thought at the time, offered her some of her spare clothes that didn’t fit right because Madison was so much taller than Charlie, and her burgundy corduroy slacks hung two inches too high from the ankle and she couldn’t button all the buttons on her blue blouse and that had been, well that had been, and then Charlie had said well, there’s still school and Madison had been like, right because they had first period together and Charlie said that she’d just meet up with her there, and when she’d come out of her shower Madison was gone and they sat together in first period, just like always, but Madison didn’t ask to crib from Charlie’s answers and Charlie didn’t offer, too occupied with wolves howling in a forest too full of deer. When she got the quiz back after class she’d gotten only a 65%, her lowest score yet, so it was just as well that neither of them had asked or offered, and then it just went on like a bad habit and they forgot to share their schedules and then Charlie went off to college and she forgot to email Madison all those months, and now they were back, and Charlie wondered why they’d never talked about it, why Charlie, who knew more about werewolves now, hadn’t asked when it’d happened, who had bit her, and why she hadn’t offered to kill the bastard who did, silver bullet melted from the Dante’s finest silver always polished if never used, straight to the heart.

She wished that they’d grown up in the day where everyone and their mother owned a cell phone. It didn’t have to be smart, it just needed to a cell phone, hugging snug in their pocket, but there was only the land line and arguments about who got to use it when and to get off the damn interweb for those two growing up.

Big, swanky hotel like this though would have a telephone book. They had to. And if that didn’t work, she could always go to the local dive bar--The Roadhouse they called it these days. There was always someone there who knew everybody, and they were usually sleazy enough to give up phone numbers and addresses too.

She looked over her shoulder, a habit of breaking rules as a kid, waiting for mom or dad to bear down upon her, telling her she was doing wrong. She herself had multiple pseudonyms, firewalls, and the like surrounding her personal information, both real and fake, to deter such people from asking nosy questions about her personal affairs such as where she (actually) lived, but she was pretty sure Madison did not, probably because it wouldn’t occur for her to do, not in a small town like this, the easiest sort of type to exploit and take advantage and no she wouldn’t do anything that would possibly get anybody in any kind of trouble or discomfiture so help her god.

If such a being even existed.

~*~

In the room neighboring Charlie’s, Bela and Sarah lounged on the bed together, the spoils of their bounty in their laps. “I thought you were above petty theft,” Sarah said, holding a silver ring, too large for any of their fingers into the air and peering through its circle at the ceiling, perfectly whitewashed. 

“If it’s pretty, I take it,” Bela said, rolling over so they were shoulder and shoulder, the toes of her nyloned feet rubbing up against Sarah’s calf. “And if they’re a person,” she added, smoothing her hair from her neck, and pressing kisses along the fine, delicate slope of her skin, “I flirt with them. Incorrigibly.”

“And here I thought you were going to go for a steal their hearts pun,” Sarah said, putting the ring back into a felt bag and pulling the strings taut with a snap.

Bela raised herself on her elbow. “Only because I knew you were going to make it for me.”

“You think you know me that well?” Sarah said, leaning away.

Bela crawled over her, framing her face with her thin palms. “I think I know that you hate weddings because they’re long, and this one is going to be a week of extravagance. I think I know that you’d rather be watching the latest political drama about lawyers right now because the finale is tomorrow and this shit island doesn’t have cable and you want to know whose lies will be played the straightest and the strongest.” She kissed her forehead. “I think I know you’re a hypocrite who’s already planning our own ceremony even though I’ve told you not to.” 

“I’m going to press your head to my shoulder okay?” Sarah whispered, and Bela nodded and then came the heavy weight of her hand against the nape of her neck, pushing her down so that her head was cradled against her shoulder, and they were flush together, held close by the chill summer island air, the goose bumps rising along her back, and Sarah’s hand smoothing them away. 

“I need to plan for the future,” Sarah whispered in Bela’s ear. “I needed to plan the classes that gave me my degree in art and business, and I planned how I would carve a place for myself in my father’s business, and I planned for how I would take it over when he stepped down and retired.”

“But he’s dead and you sold it--” 

“Shh,” Sarah said. “And then I realized that there’s a brave new world of which I was mostly in ignorance. And I planned to learn more about it so that I wouldn’t have blood on my hands again, and that I would know what to do when the time came for me to face them again. I learned Latin. I learned how to wield an iron sword. I learned how to disguise my presence with spells, and how to protect others.” She spread her palm wide against Bela’s back, her skin responding to the spells of protection that she had tattooed into her skin with white ink.

“And I always, always have a plan B so that I won’t be adrift if Plan A doesn’t work out,” she said.

“And what is Plan B?” Bela asked, propping herself up so that she could look down on Sarah, who put her hand over her heart.

“To follow the steps of Orpheus, and to sing a siren’s song to guide you home,” she whispered. “Don’t you remember the lyre you stole and sold to me so long ago? I thought it was just a pretty antique, but I know better now, and I’ve been taking lessons.”

“It will never work,” Bela said. “Those people--” and she jerked her head out the door-- “they’ve no ear for music. And no sense of justice. And they will never listen. And I don’t want you hurt.”

“That’s why Plan A must work. We’ve never been closer to her. All we have to do is find where she keeps your deal, and burn it.”

“You can’t burn a deal sealed with a kiss,” Bela said, hiding her face behind her hair.

“Then we’ll just take your soul. And we’ll free everyone else’s that she coerced from them, okay?”

Bela looked at Sarah, her mouth not quite smiling, not quite sneering. “Well we’re not Robin Hood’s merry men, but we are thieves.”

“The greatest thieves,” Sarah whispered. 

“And no one will sing our praises,” Bela said, “because they’ll never even know they’ve lost something until it’s too late.”

“We could let her know though,” Sarah said, picking at her nails, red like apple candied hearts, chipping them like peeling skin for thanksgiving pie. “Right before we killed her.”

“We might be thieves,” Bela said, “but we’re also business women. I made a deal with her--” 

“--you were a child,” Sarah said, “that wasn’t making a business deal, that was exploitation and coercion--not business.” 

Bela laughed, her eyes fluttering down and her lips pulling up. “Please. Let’s not be dramatic about this. I pay my debts. You know this--intimately, I think.” 

Sarah removed her hands from Bela’s thighs. “Fine. Okay.” 

“We don’t want her to know,” Bela said. “Because she has the entire legions of hell at her back, and we’re only two mere humans.” 

“No one would have to know. Not if we killed her.” Sarah bit her lips, and looked at the grey fog softening the lace curtains into something like twilight. A spider swung from a web, front legs busy spinning a little bundle round and round before pulling it back to its lair.

“We’re thieves. Not killers,” Bela said. “At least, I am.”

“Okay,” Sarah said. “It was just an idea.”

Bela slipped her fingers underneath the waistband of her white, cotton panties. “But I have a better one.”

Sarah lifted Bela’s legs so that her thighs were wrapped tight around her waist, and their mouths met as they kissed each other like they were saying goodbye.

~*~

Kevin sat on the bed, Channing’s text blipping on his phone. Sent two minutes ago. Sent three minutes ago. Sent four minutes ago. He should respond. Say hi. _Thanks for saying it’s okay if I don’t respond. It’s nice knowing you’re there for me. I wish I hadn’t gone. I wish you could have come_.

He tossed the phone across the bed, where it slid under the pillows. He flopped backwards, stretching out his back until it ached, until his breath threaded through his chest like a thin, red string, just barely holding him together. 

He never should have said yes to this stupid wedding. But it was time to move on. To stop thinking of this island with fear. 

This island didn’t need to be a bad memory. It was a living, growing thing, just like he was. He’d gone and seen the tree, all covered in green, the broken branches cracked by the weight of the swinging bodies with their broken necks and broken limbs, all healed up, not like it had never happened, just that the tree had gone on living.

He looked at his hands, pulling up his long, grey sleeves to reveal the thin white scars, tracing them with his finger before wrenching them down, and pulling out his Sudoku pad, to the half-finished puzzle he’d started on the way here.

He should have brought more.

Maybe he should have downloaded a crossword app for his phone before they went out of range of the wi-fi and the 4G networks.

Maybe all these things.

~*~

“Dude we shouldn’t be here, we’re gonna get busted and then so caught,” Harry said, rubbing his sweating palms against grass-stained blue jeans.

Ed twitched at the lacy curtains. The window looked out over the green, expansive lawns. A fountain gurgled in the center. Rich men of the upper class--the class they aspired to, the very top, golden-thin crust of a cherry pie that was their world. Hell, in two years time, they could be practicing their golf swing. “Dude, no, you chillax.”

“Do you even know the rumors that hang around these guys like the lingering after-chill of a dementor attack,” Harry hissed, pulling the window back closed. 

Ed sighed, already rehearsing the rallying speech in his head. If this were Greenwood College, he’d totally be Jeff Winger6. He winged it like a pro, and he kept the group together almost by the accident of his silver-tongued rhetoric that referenced all the things they liked best. “Now listen, Harry,” Ed began, choosing to go with the old standby of Lord of the Rings, “did Frodo and Sam turn back when the going got rough or did they--” 

“--news flash,” Maggie said, her voice a flat sword slicing the heroic, rousing theme of the evening into ribbons, like she was Alexander the Great and everything they worked for was a knot ripe for the slashing if not the untying, “nobody cares.” She was taking selfies of her bruised knees, trophies from roller derby, and she had a star tattooed on her head from that time she’d shaved herself bald, but it was longer now and you could only see the shadow of it. She took it pretty seriously, surprising, really, that his little sister not actual sis was a big nerd too. “I have a big game on Sunday. Can’t let the team down, and can’t let the Rolling Teen Titans snag a triumph under their warty noses.” 

“What language are you speaking,” Harry said, his voice tuned high pitch from stress and anxiety. “Is nobody remotely concerned that we might literally be walking into hell? Literally?”

“Look,” Maggie said, tossing her phone aside and pulling her jeans back down over her knees, “if the rumors are true and this island is lorded over by some hot shot demon family, then the world deserves to know that demons are real so they can protect themselves from these hellraisers. But if demons aren’t real? And this whole family is just your upper-crust white people too busy creating their own slow burn Apocalypse that involves the exploitation of those who aren’t white and rich like them, then who cares. We’re crashing a wedding party, we’re staying in a swank hotel room all expenses paid--complete with fine dinners, and we’ll have a grand time. Either way, we win. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

“Or we lose our lives!” Harry said. “Haven’t you watched Game of Thrones? Either you win the game of thrones or you die, and I do not want to die.”

“Don’t worry,” Ed said. “We’ll protect you. No one’s going to die here, okay? Worst that can happen is they run us out of town for trespassing, and if there really is something to these rumors, then we’ll come back and if it’s not, we’ll return home with a story to tell when we’re drunk and we all need a good laugh. Or you know, they’ll hire us to film their wedding or something lame like that.” Which in truth, had already happened and was the only reason the Ghostfacers were on the island. However, Ed had been one hundred percent certain the gang would never go for it unless it was ghostfacing business and so he’d worked with the rumors and even added some of his own to make it a bait tasty enough to bite. He sweated bullets, scared that Harry would somehow put the dots together.

Ed wanted to explain that sometimes they needed to take mundane chores in order to pay the bills, but that would hardly make Harry happy. And Harry wasn’t wrong, some of those rumors were legitimately creepy, and if they did find some Ghostfacer business on top of their actual business, then hell, he could multi-task.

“Fine. Whatever you say,” Harry said, throwing himself petulantly against the wall with a dull thump, folding his arms protectively over his chest.

“So what’s our next move, Fearless Leader7?” Maggie said, turning to Ed, managing to keep a straight face for exactly three seconds before breaking out into half-smothered giggles.

Ed, who had been gradually flushing a raspberry shade of mingled pride and embarrassment as Maggie kept Harry true the course like any Gandalf, turned crimson with shame as the giggles revealed how truly not seriously she was taking this and him. He tried to shake it off. Nope, it didn’t bother him. Not at all. “Okay, since we’re poor,” he said, rallying to a favorite topic of discussion amongst them, “we’re gonna do it blair witch project style. Everybody keep your phones on, video recording, and mingle until you find something interesting or suspicious.”

“Wow. That’s some plan you got there,” Maggie said. “Hope everyone remembered to bring your phone chargers.”

“And while you and Harry are mingling and charming the stories off everyone, I’m going to go on ahead and scope the place out. Look for anything suspicious. A devil’s lair, if you will.’

The other two were silent for a while, until they all mumbled their agreement (and if Ed’s heart faltered a little at how not one of them gasped, _what, by yourself? but will you be safe? are you sure you don’t want backup?_ he did not show it). He raised his hands above his head and clapped them together. “Alright everyone, let’s go!” Ed said. “Everyone together on three: ghostfacers!”

A text blipped on Maggie’s phone and, as she reached for it, she said, “Except we’re not actually facing ghosts, but you know, whatev.”

~*~

In the next room over, Meg and Ruby did each other’s makeup. Meg rubbed red into the high rises of Ruby’s cheeks, like any blushing bride, she said. But then Ruby’s hand caught Meg’s wrist, the one that was just about to dip a black wand into the thin bottle of mascara.

“What?” Meg said.

“I’m afraid that Sam’s getting suspicious,” Ruby said. “I think he’s beginning to think our meet-cute was just—exactly what it was. Which isn’t a problem, but we are so close to the end game--any upset now could ruin everything.” 

“What makes you think he knows anything?” Meg asked. “He’s made the right choice everytime. God, it’s like you barely had to be the little devil on his shoulder.”

Ruby shrugged. “He keeps making pointed remarks about secrets.”

Meg crept closer to Ruby, put her raspberry mouth right beside the shell of her ear, and whispered. “People who hate secrets usually are keeping a few of their own--after all, I think we know that best, don’t we? I wouldn’t worry about Sam finding out yours--you’re too good at digging them down deep, keeping them hid. I’d be more concerned with what secrets Sam himself might be hiding.” She stood to her feet, and looked down at Ruby. “What do you think, Ruby? It could be our wedding present to Sam. A nice, sloppy, messed up secret of his own that we’ve discovered, and that we’ll give back to him on a silver platter, and a frail little promise that we’ll keep it for him.” She bit her lips, and Ruby’s breath fluttered under the thin sheer veil of her skin.   

~*~

Castiel jimmied the handle on the bathroom door, checking once more to make sure it was locked since he wasn’t sure when Meg was coming back.

He hoped it’d be a long time. 

Actually, this whole business was unspeakably dull. The ceaseless repetition. The playing the second fiddle to Lucifer, when the angels had cast him down in the pit and he thought he was some big shot now that he’d clawed his way back out of it--like he hadn’t had plenty of help.

The angels should have known that Michael would have fucked it up, should have anticipated Jody’s interference, and now Lucifer was here, lording it over them all-- 

His hands slipped underneath the waistband of his jeans, palming his soft cock under his blue, silk boxers, keeping his eyes locked on his reflection in the mirror.

Lucifer.

His cock stiffened under his hand as he gripped his flesh, uncomfortably rough since he hadn’t used any lube, but that was okay, he liked the scrape and pull of it, the way it hurt more than pleased, the way it stopped the red spots from showing up on his cheeks, the red flush spreading across his neck, highlighting the vulnerable line of it.

His eyes fluttered as his dick grew fully erect, legs planted shoulder width apart, toes squirming against the tile, as he twisted his wrist into a vicious pull over his cock, fingering his slit, and imagining that it was actually Lilith’s tongue, coming to him to get what she couldn’t receive from Lucifer, the one who had everything but the one thing that Lucifer couldn’t give her but Castiel could. 

His breath caught as his body shuddered under the sharp furl of pleasure growing in his abdomen, and he lost his balance, crashing into the counter, banging his left elbow against the tile while his right fist kept jacking him up and down, as his hips thrust him into the hot slide of his palm, as he fucked and fucked and fucked his hand until his heart pumped and sweat made his skin shiny and this was him, fucking Lucifer over until his empire was ash and dust.

His skin trembled on the brink of release, and he held the image of Lucifer there, of Lucifer humiliated and destitute, Lucifer’s army defeated by the armies of heaven, and he had been a captain, serving under Anael true, but he could lead those angels, and his hand tugged at his dick, to defeat the armies of hell, against even Lucifer himself, and then he would descend to the depths of perdition, his blood burned against his skin, and his voice broke through his teeth against his lips in heady little grunts, and once there, he’d-- 

The door creaked open and Cas froze as Meg’s voice drifted through the closed bathroom door. “Clarence?” 

His forehead fell against the mirror with a wet thump as he tried to let his breathing steady (had she heard him from before? those fragile, broken vowels slipping from his half open lips?), his cock slowly softening, but not hardly quick enough to hide as he tried to tuck himself back into his boxers and his underwear. 

“You didn’t drown in there did you?”

He peeked down at his junk, his skin jumpy from the lack of release. “It’s just gonna be a second,” he said.

“Well, good,” Meg said. “I’d hate for you to not be hardly presentable at tonight’s wedding party. That’d be just embarrassing if not for both of us, at least for you.”

Cas rolled his eyes. 

~*~

Someone had had the foresight to stock the mini fridge with mini bottles of alcohol--straight vodka, pineapple rum, pink merlot wine. Dean laughed because Sam must not have known, or else he’d have cleaned out the fridge.

He drank them all, spacing them out over the course of the next hour as he took a long hot shower to wash the chill of the coast from his bones (one bottle after that), then put a mint mask over his face, stretching on the bed, sipping from the second as the mud dried against his skin, pulling his muscles comfortably, and, after he washed the green clay off, he finished the last of it. He poured a full glass of water, pink from the strawberry flavored vitamin c packet he’d poured into it, and drank it down, barely pausing for breath. He brushed his teeth and swished with his mouth with minty freshness so that he would not drink again because it said so right there on the bottle not to eat or drink for at least thirty minutes afterwards, but by then the party would be in full swing (he was already fashionably late), and he wouldn’t drink because Sam would give him The Look if he did, and that was a conversation he didn’t want to have, not here, not ever again.

Still, despite the water, he swayed a little, unsteady on his feet as he made his way downstairs, to the laughter and the talking, and there was Victor and Kevin drinking as they played what looked like Go Fish, and there was Charlie looking at her phone with the sad drink look face as she tapped at the number pad, and there was the camera crew sequestered in a corner, trying to phone the event inconspicuously so Dean gave them the finger and they gave him a dirty look back and then there was Sam, at the bar, looking satisfied and happy as he stirred his rum and coke with a thin red straw, and Dean found himself going towards him, plopping himself on the stool next to him, and saying, “Hey, Sam” and Sam saying, “Hey Dean,” and Dean, wondered, if, at the way his lips pinched momentarily, if he could smell the alcohol on his breath and if he was gonna say something but he never did, and he just said again, “I’m just so glad you made it, Dean.”

Dean nodded, and it was easier to speak because of the alcohol. “I know I’m not your best man,” he said, “but I’m still gonna watch your back, okay? I’m gonna make sure you don’t have to deal with any shit to ruin your night or your wedding week.” He clapped his hand against his shoulder. “Like, if you need me, I’m there. I’m totally there. You won’t need to worry about a thing because I’ll worry about it for you." 

Sam smiled at him, eyes blinking slow and lazy. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Dean. You’ve been gone for such a long time--”

And then Dean did, desperately, wish for a drink, user instructions be damned --

“--I wasn’t sure we’d be able to fall back into our old patterns, you know? that it wouldn’t be like the way it was before. That we’d be--different. Too different.” 

“Oh man, no, no, no,” Dean said, the word comforting in the hard roundness of it, sure and steady as strung out rosary beads, “true friendship is forever.” 

“I know--I remember,” Sam said, leaning forwards, but then jerking back as Dean’s phone blipped, and their gaze broke as Dean looked down at the text message.

“I don’t recognize the number,” Dean said, anxiety twisting in his gut like someone had corkscrewed a knife there. “But it’s about my brother. I guess he’s passed out drunk at the Roadhouse and Ellen probably wants him gone." 

“Do you want me to?” Sam said, already half on his feet, but Dean shook his head.

“No, remember what I said? I said I’d be taking care of your problems, not that you’d be helping me with mine. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Going down the way towards the Roadhouse was just like old times, Dean thought, his feet slipping on the loose gravel. Like when Dad just drank and drank and someone had to go bring him home because Mom was working the late shift--and his thoughts turned hazy and he brushed the sweat from his forehead.

He was hot, even though the air was chill, and he hoped that Adam wouldn’t make a fuss, that he’d just come along and let Dean bring him home and then maybe even invite him to sleep over since he wasn’t sure he was gonna feel up to walking back, but maybe that’d be too weird, it’d been a long time since they were brothers--maybe too long.

Dean heard the Roadhouse before he saw it--heard the jukebox tunes of classic rock that he used to keep on cassette tapes in his car, heard the smash of glass against floor, the raucous laughter. Then there it was--lights spelling out the Roadhouse still patchy in the darkness, like someone knew they had to get new bulbs but didn’t quite see the point of it since everyone who grew up on the island knew about this bar, and it was the only one for tourists to drink their vacation money away anyway.

When he pushed his way through the doors, he was greeted by a bear hug, someone’s strong iron arms crushing him to their chest, and someone calling out, “Dean, is it you? Did you finally come home?” And when the person released him, he saw it was Ellen, still wearing her hair dark and down, the off-white apron still tied around her waist. “Why’d you even come back to this mud hole,” she added, winking as she cupped his face. “But gosh, am I glad to see you, boy.”

He leaned into the touch, surprised as he did so, the alcohol making him loose and needy, just like everybody said he was. He pulled back, because he hated that. “Sam’s wedding,” he said. “Didn’t you hear?”

“Of course, I heard,” she said, dragging him to the bar. “But I hadn’t heard about you.” She set a brandy in front of him. “I’m glad you came back. It must have been hard.”

“Not half so hard as staying here musta been,” Dean said, hesitating before drinking it down in one go, appreciating the way the alcohol buzzed through him, burning a fire-pit to his gut and it was like goddamn, goddamnit, Dean.

“You have no idea,” Ellen said, voice suddenly gone sober. “It was real bad for a while there. I was always so glad that you’d gotten out.” 

Someone flopped against the bar next to Dean, a girl in plaid and short skirts. “Yeah, it’s too bad the rest of us couldn’t ditch like Dean here.” She looked at the purple glitter polish on her fingers, and chipped at it with her thumb. “I just wish it had been me.”

“Tracy?” Dean said. “Is that you?”

“Yeah it’s me. What the fuck do you care?”

“I just--” and his voice dried up.

“I always wanted to leave too,” she said, her voice quiet as she waited for Ellen to pour her drink. “But I never could, you know?” She laughed, and shook her head. “It takes so much money, and I didn’t have family in LA like you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said.

“Not your fault,” Tracy said, taking her drink in hand. Then she disappeared through the crowd, and Dean saw her last at the juke box and, in a corner nearby, his brother too, quietly sleeping it off, head on the table.

“You don’t need to bring him home now,” Ellen said. “I just needed to know that someone would be picking him up sooner or later, since I couldn’t get a hold of Jody.”

Like that was a surprise. “Thanks, Ellen,” Dean said. “Though I don’t know why you thought to call me." 

Ellen frowned. “It’s the number listed in Adam’s emergency contact. To be honest, I wasn’t even sure who I was calling. There wasn’t a name listed with the number.”

“Oh,” Dean said. He looked back at the kid, and wondered if it’d always been listed as that, or if he’d just gone ahead and listed it after he left, just to spite him in case something like this happened because what the hell was Dean gonna do in Los Angeles if the kid got fucked up on this island besides feel guilty as shit? Maybe he’d planned to get drunk--but Dean shook his head. He didn’t know why he’d did this, but it was just--it didn’t make sense.

“Hey, city boy,” someone said, and Dean turned to see Mike fiddling with a pool stick. “Why don’t you and me play a game of pool together. Just like old times, huh?”

And maybe it was the drink, because it did look like that Mike was smiling, and maybe he was okay now that they’d both had time to cool off. “Sure,” Dean said.

“I hope you think you can’t touch this,” Mike said, posing in that way that really did make Dean want to jump his bones, just like they were teenagers again. “Because you’re right--you can’t.” He winked. “I’m the undefeated champ.” 

“Yeah until now,” Dean said, chalking up a stick. “Why don’t you rack the ball, hot shot, and let’s play.” 

They played, and Mike was good just like he said, and Dean was good too, even though he lost to Mike, but it was okay, because it was still fun and Mike was still game to play another round.

The crash of the front doors being opened too hard jerked Dean’s focus, and he turned to see Abbie, still wearing her black motorcycle leather, red hair curled and coiffed into a pinup 50s updo, pink lion tongue licking her red lips like she was a femme fatale out of a noir novel, and his body shut down to red alert so fast the pool stick shook in his hand.

“Don’t worry about her, Dean,” Mike said, leaning on his stick. “She’s just--” and he gestured, as if he couldn’t think of a good enough word to describe her.

“I just don’t want to talk to her,” Dean said. Or to have her anywhere near his general vicinity.

“And you won’t have to,” Mike promised. “Come on, it’s your turn to break." 

And Dean did, but he kept an eye out for Abbie, and his hands wouldn’t stop trembling, and his shot was poor, barely scattering the balls at all. 

But then, he saw Abbie walk up towards Adam, who’d already started to stir, sleepily, without quite waking up. Abbie looked down on him, her arms folded across her chest, looked down in thoughts so deep and predatory that Dean wondered if he shouldn’t move to intervene. 

Relief relaxed the tension in his shoulders when he saw her move off, and he lined up his shot to shoot a blue ball into the hole, and missed when he heard Adam shout, springing up from the table, his face dripping, and ice cubes sliding down his clothes as he looked up at Abbie, who had one of the pitchers usually reserved for beer in her hand, and it was wet and dripping with water.

“What the fuck, Abbie?” Half melted ice fell from his hair, from under his shirt. A puddle formed at his boots.

Dean bit his lip, shook his head, as he put the pool stick down, Mike trailing after him as he went towards the two to do what? He didn’t know. It’d been so long since he’d played peacekeeper, but he figured it’d be just like learning to ride a bicycle again--a bike that was three sizes too small, perhaps. 

“Nobody asked you to come here and hog an entire table because you drink more liquor than you can hold,” Abbie said. “What, you’re sad again? Still thinking about John Winchester? All keyed up because certain brothers have come back home and you got all these bad memories you don’t know how to deal with so you just get out on the town and get drunk?” She slammed her fists on the table, looming over Adam as her presence forced him back into his chair, huddled up against the wall. “News flash: nobody fucking cares about your problems. The rest of the island’s moved on from the Winchester murders--so why the fuck can’t you? Now get the fuck out of my seat before I do something worse. Ice is kinder than me--I don’t melt.”

Dean was close enough to Abbie now to pull her back by the shoulder, and he wasn’t expecting her to move with him, to let his force power her left hook, the punch that landed squarely on his jaw, her rings tearing the flesh of his lip. He staggered under the blow, blood flowing into his mouth, eyes blinking so that they could refocus, so they could find something that wasn’t bleeding color.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed, gripping his collar so that he rose unsteadily to his feet, then pushing him back with her hands striking his chest, palm downwards--more like a slap than a punch, but it still pushed him back into the pool table. His vision spun, and he saw that the crowd was watching, that Ellen was on the phone, that Mike was staring between them as he helped Adam to his feet--

She approached closer and, using the pool table at his back for leverage, he tried to kick at her, hoping to catch his boots in her gut, make her think twice about the way she was coming up to him like that, but he didn’t stick the blow, and she dodged to the side and down, catching his ankle with one of her hands, and jerking him off his balance so that the wind was knocked out of him again as he fell back hard against the pool table. “You wanna fight, big boy, you wanna fight?” she shouted.

And she slipped between his legs, too close to kick, looming over him so that he couldn’t regain his balance, couldn’t get any leverage to take a swing at her. He pulled his arms up to protect his face, but she forced them back down, pinning his left wrist with her fist, hands too small to pin them both, while his free hand tried to push back, to fight, and he found his fingers scrabbling at her neck, but it didn’t matter because, splayed on the table as he was, his heart stopped beating, his breath caught in his throat, and his body went limp, because of how there she was, because of how she could do anything to him now, at this instant, and he’d be powerless to stop her because she was so much stronger than he was, and-- 

“You know what makes deer so easy to hunt and so hard at the same time?” Abbie said, looking down at him as she flung his other hand away contemptuously, and his fingers trembled against the green fuzz. “They freeze, for a split instant, before they leap away. You’re frozen now, aren’t you--you’re frozen with pain and fear and memory--I could do anything to you right here, because I’m the hunter and you’re--well, you’re--not.” She shifted her weight so that she had a better grip on his hand. “You ran away because you were so scared, and now you’re scared all over again, but this time--” her head fell back as she laughed-- “There’s nowhere to run.” She raised her hand, the hand not pinning his own to the table, and he wondered that it wasn’t curled into a fist, was she what, going to slap him across the face--”And now you feel bad for running back when you could, and you feel bad that your brother is wasted over here in the bar because he’s so sad you’re back but not back and he’s sad that you got to run and he didn’t and you’re guilty that you ran and that you never came back but you know deep down inside you’ll just keep running because anything is better than this.” Then her raised hand clenched into a fist. “Well, if you think getting the shit beat out of you will be penance enough, I’ll be more than glad to oblige.”

And then someone caught her, twisted her arm behind her back, wrenching her away from him.  “Now Abbie,” a woman said, gold sheriff star shining on her jacket. “I’ve warned you about this kind of drunken, rowdy behavior. Seem’s like every week Ellen’s calling me in because you’re starting a fight with some tourist, and every time, you land yourself in jail for drunk and disorderly behavior. Well guess what, what makes you think that this time is gonna be any different?”

Abbie threw her head back and laughed, her hair coming loose and undone, falling over her shoulders, as she presented herself with her back turned and hands clasped behind her. “I wouldn’t want it any other way, Sheriff Mills.” 

And then Dean’s eyes met with the sheriff’s as she clasped cuffs on Abbie, and he wondered that he had anymore breath to lose to see Jody like that, still the sheriff, still wearing her hair the way Bobby liked it.

Sheriff Jody Mills had the deputy take Abbie to jail in the back seat of his patrol car, so Dean found himself sitting up front in the jeep that she preferred using, body leaned up close to the side of the car while she turned the radio up, old time blues, and hummed along. The air was heavy, not surprising since humidity was an issue here, living so close to the ocean, but even over the music, he could hear the steady in-and-out of her breath, and he rubbed his palms against his knees, wondering if he should say anything, but what.

He looked at the kleenex that she’d offered him when she saw the extent of his face, had asked if he’d wanted to press charges against Abbie (he didn’t), and then offered to take him home.

He looked up from under his lashes at her, but her eyes were fixed on the road, speedometer going the exact speed limit. He looked at his hands, limp and loose in his lap.

Abbie was so full of shit, he decided, vaguely.

“We’re here,” Sheriff Jody said.

He unlocked the door, pushed it open and, in the split moment of hesitation where he tried to decide whether he wanted to say thank you, or maybe we should see each other sometime, or just fucking ignore her like she had done to him, Jody said, “What are you doing back here, Dean?”

Dean blinked in the darkness. What the hell? “You don’t answer my texts, my calls, my emails, and the first time we see each other in years you ask me what I’m doing here instead of asking me over for I don’t know dinner or something?” He felt like a jerk, he was a jerk, but the words kept vomiting up his throat. “You know that Adam probably blames me for not being there and maybe he’s right, but what am i supposed to do, Mom, what do you want me to do?”

Sheriff Mills refused to look at him, staring instead at the steering wheel. “How long are you staying, Dean?” 

“For the wedding. Unless--”

Well, I hope you have a safe trip back,” Sheriff Mills said.

Dean took a step back like he’d been slapped. “Gee. Thanks. For the fucking ride at least.” He slammed the passenger door shut and walked back to the hotel.

Jody nodded, and waited for him to close the door before driving away, all terrain tires crunching over the gravel.

The party had already ended by the time that Dean made his way back to the hotel. Some people hadn’t even made it back to their rooms as they slept off the alcohol, and he tip-toed quietly past them, hoping they wouldn’t wake till he was long gone, as he had no energy for explanations for his lateness or for his bloody mouth.

But someone was still up, Sam peering into an empty glass. Dean wondered if he had been waiting up for him, wondered if he should say hi, but Sam looked up then, graced him with a smile. “Hi,” he said. “Everything okay?”

Dean slid into the stool next to him, fingers in his laps, though he eyed the whiskey. “Yeah, I guess,” he said. “Got into a bar fight.”

Sam laughed. “You in a bar fight? Say it isn’t so.”

Dean tried to smile, but he was too tired. “Abbie--is--”

“Something,” Sam said, nodding.

“A menace,” Dean said, anger seeping into his voice, hands shaking. “I don’t get why she and Mike are friends.”

Sam looked up at him. “Jealous?”

Dean shook his head. “No. I just--sometimes you can’t help but wonder at the kind of company a man keeps, you know?”

Sam played with the lip of his glass. “You got someone, back at home? In Los Angeles?”

Dean flushed as he thought how he and Benny had spent their last night together. He pulled out his phone and brought up one of his favorite pictures--a snapshot of Benny cooking, of the little half smile you could just barely see from his beard. “Yeah. His name is Benny. He’s great.”

Sam looked at the picture, his mouth thin and small. “I’m happy for you, Dean,” he finally said. “Real happy for you.”

Dean put his phone away, then touched Sam on the shoulder. “Thanks, man. Happy for you too. All this--” he gestured at the grand house, so large it was practically a hotel. “Wow.”

“I know,” Sam said. “Wow.”

“Gonna get some shuteye,” Dean said. “Okay?”

Sam nodded. “See you tomorrow.”

Dean hurried up to his room, his whole body crying for sleep, for bed. He kicked off his boots and, turned the light on, to see how bad the damage to his face was. 

But he felt the familiar freezing feeling again, as he saw a newspaper clipping taped to his mirror. He could just make out the name John Winchester in the headlines, and he couldn’t stop the way his feet took him closer, closer to the mirror, or the way his hand reached out, and pulled it from the mirror, the tape coming away with a sick, sticky sound. And there it was, the list of the dead, John Winchester, Bobby Singer, Charles Tran, and he crumpled the paper in his fist, and wondered who the fuck would do that.

He took a shower so hot his skin turned red under his freckles, and he ran it until he was cold and shivering, until it was time to crawl in between the covers and wait for the memories to stop sifting around, to stop stirring up dust, to just--stop.

~*~ 

Meanwhile, as the partiers gradually slipped away back to their rooms to retire in preparation for the next day’s festivities, Uncle Crowley, stumbling drunk through the woods, grumbled at the listening trees, berating them for how Luke, that old devil, refused to listen to his sound advice. “I’m a business man, aren’t I?” he said, holding his arms out, head raised high as the earth spun beneath its feet. “I think I know how best to succeed, don’t you? But oh no! He’d rather continue running things like a medieval dungeon than to enter the future with the rest of us.” Crowley shook his head, his not-so-shiny business shoes slipping in the muck as he neared a narrow ravine, over which stretched a rickety bridge. “In my plan,” he said, stepping gingerly onto the bridge, fingers clutching the rope that served as an assist, “we’d have actual roads and actual bridges and a good deal less mud!”

It was, at that moment, that his foot broke through the bridge, possibly because the wood had long rotted away. Pain chafed at his skin as he tried to pull his leg out, but he only succeeded in dislodging the rest of the wood and falling almost completely through the hole. He clung to the bridge, his legs swinging wildly underneath him.

“Help,” he called. “Someone help me.”

He would have gone for his phone, but he didn’t bother because he knew there was no cell reception. There were other ways to make a phone call, of course, but he did not have a throat to slit, a knife to do the slitting, nor a bowl to fill.

If he were running the place, this would not have happened at all.

He stopped his flailing when he heard a sound in the underbrush--a crunch of leaves, a branch snapping in half. “Hello?” he called. 

Something growled beneath him, and Crowley kicked savagely at whatever could make such a sound, then screamed himself when sharp teeth sank into the muscled knot of his calf, tearing not just his flesh from the bone, but the demonic essence that allowed him to possess flesh in the first place, tearing it to shreds until the only pieces that remained of Crowley was a bloodied stump of a torso (dead, rigor-mortised hands still clinging to the wood) and scraps of a mangled soul only a hellhound could have sniffed out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: It’s said it takes seven years to grow completely new skin cells.To think, this year I will grow into a body you never will have touched -- Brett E. Jenkins
> 
>  
> 
> 2: Know Your Meme--15 Minutes Late with Starbucks
> 
>  
> 
> 3: Slaughterhouse V by Kurt Vonnegut: “ Now, when I myself hear that somebody is dead, I simply shrug and say what the Tralfamadorians say about dead people, which is "so it goes.” 
> 
>  
> 
> 4: And he saith unto them, Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men (Matt: 4:19)
> 
>  
> 
> 5: That’s no moon--it’s a space station [called the death star]. Star Wars, A New Hope
> 
>  
> 
> 6: From the comedy series Community
> 
>  
> 
> 7: The antagonist in Rocky and Bullwinkle


	3. Pie

Dean woke a half hour before his alarm clock was supposed to ring, and stretched, burying his head in his pillow. He was still on the island. Someone had still pasted that newspaper to his mirror.

Everything could be substantially better.

He shook his head, and rolled himself out of bed, stretching his ankles, his calves, his thighs in preparation for his morning run.

Fog had rolled in through the night, and it dewed on his skin and in his hair, dripping in his eyes as he ran. He missed the clear skies of Los Angeles--its perpetual perfect weather of seventy degrees except in the blazing summers.

The woods made it hard for him to gain speed, but the terrain was rockier, more uphill, and Dean was panting, catching his breath, running the stitch in his side even deeper until the pain pulsed sharp with his heart, and he was forced to stop, hands on his knees, heaving until someone hauled him up by his shoulder, palm clamming tight over his mouth--his heart jumped again, his skin crawling, and he tried to cry out, to kick, until he heard Mike’s voice whispering in his ear, “It’s okay, Dean. It’s only me.”

Dean resisted the urge to bury his elbows into Mike’s ribs. 

“Shh,” Mike said, pointing, and then Dean saw the deer and, yes, there was Abbie too, dressed in green, a camo-cap pulled tight over her head so that her flaming red hair was disguised, and what the hell was she doing out of jail already? Her bow was strung tight, arrow already notched to screen. She steadied her breath, pulled the arrow back a little tighter-- 

“Run,” Dean said, scuffing the dirt with his shoes. “Run!”

Mike pushed Dean away, and he struggled to right himself. “What the fuck, Dean? Since when did you have a heart for Bambi?”

“Control your boyfriend, Mike,” Abbie shouted, arrow still notched to her bow, though she had lowered it. “Or I’ll control him for you. And you know I can, don’t you? What’s the matter, Dean? Surprised to see little old me so soon?”

She loomed over Dean, even though she was shorter, and he hated how small he could sometimes feel, how small people could make him feel. Going to LA was supposed to have changed that, but coming right home? Hadn’t changed a damn thing.

“Speechless,” Abbie said after a beat. “I guess I do have that effect on men. Too bad the Sheriff never explained that we all have our little arrangement. I always get out the next morning. It’s our super special thing.” She tilted her head over her shoulder, teeth biting into her lips. “Too bad you don’t have one with her. That must hurt, doesn’t it? Or does it hurt more that she didn’t make an exception for you?” She shrugged, laughing. “To be honest, I thought for sure she was going to keep me there for the day, just to make a point, some sort of power play, but there she was, keys in hand, right on time.”

Dean turned his back on her, back to Mike. “You were going to kill the deer.”

“That’s right,” Abbie said. “Go on and change the subject. Doesn’t change anything.”

“We kill them every season,” Mike said. “We need to--we need to control the population. You know this. We’ve hunted together before.” His eyes hold Dean’s, and his hands flick dirt and leaves from his shoulders. “We were good at it.”

He closed his eyes. He remembered. Remembered felling the deer, slitting her throat to let the blood drain out--it wasn’t something he liked to remember, and he hadn’t kept his forest camo gear when he was sent to LA. “You like killing them,” he said to Abbie. “You like hunting them. You like spilling their blood.”

Abbie smirked, her tongue red like her lips. “We all got our hobbies, Dean. Get off your high horse.” She returned her arrow to the quiver. “C’mon, Michael. The deer aren’t gonna kill themselves.”

“Dean,” Mike said, “we can talk later, okay?" 

Dean shook his head. “We got nothing to talk about. I gotta get ready for this wedding thing anyway.”

“See you later?” Mike said.

Dean pretended not to hear as his feet crashed through the underbrush, breaking the twigs and the silence, scaring all the game away.

~*~

Father Gil examined the church, compiling an inventory of all the things that would need to be made ready. He would need to get the music selection from Ruby, need to make sure they had their vows written. He wondered if he needed to help with the decorations, then determined that Lilith would have let him know if he needed to do that.

He pulled his phone from his slacks. “Casey?” he said. “Yeah, I know that Dean’s come back to town.” He was silent. “I don’t see why we need to be worried about it. He gave up the life, didn’t he?”

He pulled his phone away, so that he could adjust his hearing aid. “No, I really don’t think that his friendship with Sam will sway Sam from the marriage. He loves Ruby, really loves her. And nothing can defeat true love.” He cleared his throat. “Mawwiage,” he said, “that dweam within a dweam. And wuv, twue wuv1\--”

and then he burst out laughing, and if someone had been there to hear it, they would have heard Casey’s laugh too from the other end. “Glad to know I can still make you laugh,” Father Gil said. “Listen, we’ll see each other at the wedding okay? I know you’re busy with helping Meg and Ruby and the other bridesmaids, but keep an eye on the hunters, okay? Tracy and Gordon and I heard rumors that Tamara’s back in town, too. They can do a lot of damage together if they get their mind to it.” He nodded, smiling at the cell. “I know, Casey. See you soon." 

He hummed to himself then as he walked across the lawns to his church. He would get himself a chocolate croissant, he thought, and then --

his foot stepped into one of the rope traps that hunters were fond of using to string up their prey--usually the deer on the island. “Hello?” he called. He fumbled to reach for his phone, but it had already fallen from his slacks pocket, and then his hearing aid slipped soon after. “Tarnation,” he said, as he folded his hands over his stomach, eyes already closing as he waited for the hunter return to check their traps.

He’d told them over and over to refrain from setting their traps along the more populated areas. Sheriff Mills would definitely be hearing about this.

With his eyes closed and his hearing aid gone, he never even heard the approach of the hunter, nor the slide of the blade neatly slicing his head from his body.

~*~ 

Dean sat on the steps of the hotel, hands on his knees, a half drunk bottle of gatorade hanging from his hands between his thighs. He jumped when Tracy flung herself down next to him. 

“Dean,” she said.

“Tracy,” he said right back. 

She stretched out against the steps in a way that looked decidedly uncomfortable, interlaced fingers cradling her head. “You left,” she said.

“I was sent away,” Dean said. “Didn’t we talk about this last night?”

“You could have come back,” Tracy said. 

Dean looked at his knees. “Sheriff sent me away for a reason. She told me to be brave when she did. And so I was. And she told me that she would ask me to come back, but she never did. So.”

“Too proud to come back on your own?”

“Is it so wrong to want to be asked to come back?” Dean looked at her and, in answer, she pulled bug-lensed sunglasses and put them on, so he put his mirror lensed aviator shades.

“Nice,” she said, giving him a thumbs up.

They sat in silence, while Tracy looked at her nails. “I became a hunter, you know. After what happened. After it turned out that a demon was possessing John Winchester. But it wasn’t--it wasn’t because  of that.”

“What do you mean?” Dean said, his voice scraped low. “I mean, I get wanting to be a hunter when you lose people--I mean that’s, I mean that’s how our family got into it. But it doesn’t have to stay like that.”

“Did you quit in LA?” Tracy asked.

“Not really,” Dean said. “Didn’t want to let anyone down. But it wasn’t like--the life. I got an apartment. A car payment. But sometimes, I see something or hear something and I--” he shrugged. She could guess the rest easily enough without him going into tiring details.

“Then you know it’s not that easy, do you?” Her voice was sharp. She sighed. “I think. I think that maybe I could have quit, you know, after a while, if I knew this island was safe.” Her eyes searched Dean’s face. “But it’s not safe. There’s something going on. I don’t know what it was. But I think that the Sheriff’s involved. And I think--I think Sam’s involved. And everyone in this, big grand hotel knows too. And I just--I need to know, if you know. Anything.”

Dean looked at her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Tracy.”

“Good,” she said. Then she pushed herself up, and she leaned in closer to Dean. “Dean, John Winchester killed my parents. Because some asshole demon possessed him. And Sheriff Mills shot him in the throat with a demon-trapped bullet. And then they buried him in a demon trapped coffin. But Dean,” she said, her voice a whisper as she looked over her shoulder. “I’ve seen John Winchester.”

Dean leaned in closer. “Like--for real? Or in your dreams?”

“For real,” Tracy said. “He’s in my room, which is impossible because I salt my doors like any good hunter. And then I warded my doors, and I still see him. I see him everywhere.”

“Do you see him now?” Dean asked.

She shook her head. “But I need to know Dean, I need to know--do you see him too?”

“Not--not in the way you are,” Dean said.

“But you didn’t see him in LA, right?” Tracy asked. “He wasn’t there, was he?”

Dean folded her hands in his. “I swear to you, I never saw him. Not in the seven years that I was there. 

Tracy licked her lips, hesitated, then blurted it out. “Do you think I could come with you, when you went back?”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “Yeah I think that’d be cool.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Tracy said. She looked over the carefully coiffed lawns, dyed green she was sure because nothing grew so green in this grey, grey land. “I just. I don’t think I can stand it here, much longer, you know. I can’t keep looking over my shoulder.”

“I know what you mean,” Dean said.

She wiped her eyes with her wrist, careful to avoid smudging her mascara. “Well, thanks for listening, Dean. But this is getting a little too maudlin even for me. Let me know when your boat leaves.”

Dean half saluted her retreating form, then forced himself to get up. A shower was just the one thing that he needed, and he was damned if anyone or anything was going to put him off that mission.

~*~

Ed barely knew what to do with himself when he overheard that Tracy chick talking with that Dean fellow about that serial killer dude because this was it. This was the big one. This is what was going to make him famous.

And the rest of the Ghostfacers.

This is what was going to win him all the girls.

He knew this was the reason he came here. Fate had lead him to this point because, what he was going to do, he was going to find this John Winchester, and he was going to record him on tape, and then he was going to expose him for the ghost he really was, and then he was going to do away with his spirit, save an entire island from the further terrorization of a serial killer, and he was going to be a big damn hero. 

And everyone was going to know and fall in love with them and they would be rich and famous and invited to talk at the San Diego Comic Con. 

He could feel it in his bones that the force was with him.

And everything was going to turn out alright.

He was positively buzzing with excitement as he climbed the stairs two at a time, barely restraining himself from slamming the door.

“What the hell,” Maggie said. “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

So he told them and Harry’s jaw gaped. Maggie blinked at him. “What the ever loving fuck, Ed, that’s not a cool idea.”

He slapped his hands together, rubbed his palms together. “What do you mean it’s not a cool idea? It’s a fucking great idea.”

“Do you guys know anything about John Winchester? Anything at all?”

“Beyond the fact that he killed a bunch of people--no? Does it matter? He’s dead--and now he’s back again. That’s ghost material, adopted sis.”

Maggie sat up even straighter so that she could reach him to slap him over the head. “Well, let me learn you a thing, Big Brother. John Winchester’s victims did not die quiet. They died bloody. He used a head spade to kill them. Head spades are what you use to kill whales. He killed them like animals, okay? He made it very painful for them to before he died. We don’t want to fuck around with John winchester, ghost or not, because ghosts can still hurt people, and I don’t plan on coming back from this island in a coffin with a closed casket funeral.”

“What do you mean, made it very painful for them?” Harry said, nervously, his voice breaking.

“Oh come on, dude,” Ed said. “Don’t let her make you scared.”

“I mean,” Maggie said, her eyes unfocused on the wall, “that he dragged them to a tree, with ropes through their ankles, and that he’d hang them in a variety of ways--so that their joints would pop from their sockets and they’d just be stretched out until they split, okay? And they were still alive, until they died from the shock and the pain so this--this John Winchester character--it’s not somebody we’re gonna tango with, okay? Because I don’t want to get hurt.”

“Yeah, but what about the fame, the fortune?” Ed wheedled. “Do you think Buffy paled at the thought of the apocalypse? She didn’t! She kicked butt.” 

“Buffy’s not real,” Maggie said. “But I am, and so are you. And what’s the point of earning a bunch of money, if you’re not even alive to spend it? I never signed on for that.”

“Well, technically, you haven’t signed on for anything. You’re like an honorary ghostfacer. But. Fine.Whatever.  Maggie’s out, but there’s still three of us.” He turned to Harry. “You’re it, man. You’re the tie-breaker. You gonna pussy-foot out on me, or you gonna turn the tide?”

Harry looked nervously from one to the other, from the intense, expectant stare in Ed’s face, and the way that Maggie was staring at the way her foot was bouncing up and down. “I think--I think I need some time to think about it, okay?”

Ed rolled his eyes, but then said. “Fine, whatever.”

~*~

Ruby surveyed the wedding scene with her arms folded across her chest, her smile smug as the guests mingled, as they wondered what team they’d find themselves on. What bargains they’d make to trade a yellow scarf for a blue scarf. She steepled her hands, palms pressed together, and put them over her lips.

 Meg came up behind Ruby, her chin resting on her shoulder. “I don’t really get the point of it all,” she said. “A scavenger hunt, really? With teams and a prize?”

“It has to be real,” Ruby said. “Besides, I like scavenger hunts. And I like seeing who wins and who loses.”

Meg sighed. “Well, count me out. I need to babysit a self-made hero with aspirations of godhood and grandeur.”

Ruby laughed--she couldn’t help it, but then she closed her eyes, her thoughts drifting towards Sam, greedy little Sam who fancied himself a martyr.  Her hands rubbed up her thighs where Sam had bit them until she bled, until his teeth were red and there was red on his lips and his face, and she was still coming down from the high of it.

“Well you have fun with all of this,” Meg said, kissing the curve of her neck. “I’m going to read my magazines by the pool.”They hugged, then Ruby turned towards the crowd, raising her clasped hands above her heads. “Are we ready for a party?”

The guests raised their champaign glasses and cheered. 

“Choose a scarf!” Ruby said. “Blue Team, Yellow Team, Red team! On the tables there’s a list of things you need to scavenger for. Just a little tiny list--” and she put her fingers close together -- “of stuff that means a lot to Sam and me. Person who wins, knows us the best! And gets a prize!”

Ruby shaped her hand into a gun, and pointed it toward the crowd. “On your mark, get set--bang!”

And the guests went wild. 

Well, that was probably more to do with the drink than actual real excitement for the scavenger hunt--but hey, did it really matter?

~*~

“Bela, we’re on different teams, and nobody’s trading with me,” Sarah hissed as Bela perused the list of things they were all supposed to find. First kiss photo, Ruby’s little red bike that use to be her very favorite--wow, did that one even exist? -- a swig of Sam’s favorite drink? She shook her head. These were terrible.

“It doesn’t matter,” Bela said. “It’s not like we’re trying to win this thing.” She raised her head, and fixed the blue scarf that Sarah had tied around her neck. “Perhaps it’s better if we split up anyway. Cover more ground.”

“But won’t we look suspicious?” Sarah said. 

“Not if you keep looking so nervous,” Bela said. “Here give me that.” She untied the scarf, and then tied it around her wrist. “Why don’t you stay here. Mosey around the house. Pretend you’re taking an interest in all the fancy artwork they’ve got hanging up here, just ripe for the picking.”

“We’re not here to steal art,” Sarah hissed.

“Yeah, but we could steal the art in addition to. I know you’ve been wanting to expand your collection.”

Sarah raised her hand, finger pressed against Bela’s lips. “Don’t even try to tempt me.”

Bela smiled at her, that winning smile that Sarah would do anything to see bestowed on her just one more time. “Good. It’s settled them. You stay here, and save your very fine shoes from tramping in a god forsaken wilderness, and I’ll look for answers on the island.”

“I don’t like this plan,” Sarah said. “I was raised on the buddy system.”

Bela pressed her lips to Sarah’s forehead. “I think we’re both a bit too grownup for that, aren’t we?” 

“Never,” Sarah said. “Never too old to be with someone, or to ask for help.”

Bela squeezed Sarah’s hand. “I’ll see you at the bonfire party tonight, okay?” 

She nodded.

~*~

If there was one thing that Bela hated, it was the woods. If there was a second thing that she hated, it was tramping through the woods. And she also preferred looking for crap that would provide personal interest to her as opposed to Sam’s and Ruby’s personal life. 

Not that she disliked Sam or anything, or even Ruby, who seemed fairly decent for a demon--hell, she could respect a woman on the prowl like anyone else. After all, it took one to know one. She just didn’t care. And there was literally nothing in this god forsaken island outside of the Dante lair that could possibly lead to her soul, but they were coming up dry, and that was simply not acceptable. She pulled out her phone to text Sarah that she was coming back, that they could pretend to look at art together, then really do the artsy stuff to each other in bed before the bonfire--but there was no signal, which was so fucking typical being in the middle of nowhere.

Bela shook her head, and went to turn back to the hotel. The demon family would never step foot outside their luxurious palace, and she knew this because she would never do this because only a truly desperate woman would be brought to these depths, and she knew that a demon family headed by Lucifer and Lilith would never know such desperation as this.

No, wherever her soul was, the secret to its location wasn’t in the middle of the woods.

She slapped at a bug that landed on her skin, smearing her blood along with its. “Revolting,” she said.

She hoped Sarah remembered to bring that aloe vera gel she was so fond of. It was soothing. And then maybe, they could both take a long, luxurious bath in epsom salts that smelled like lavender, swathing their bodies in sweet-smelling soaps, and mint lotions, the kind that tingled and buzzed in all the right places--

She stepped, just like any other step staggering through the woods, but this time, something lifted her up by the ankle, and she found herself swinging, back jack-knifing her to an upside down position so that her leather jacket hanging down around her ears.

“Damn,” Bela said, as she swayed.

She pulled herself up by her core, tried to untie the knot that gripped her ankle, but it was too tight, and she was too weak, and she fell back down again, gasping, her head pounding as blood rushed through her as she swung in the grip of the rope, and the breath of the wind.

Helpless. No knife to cut herself down. No one to make a deal with, a bargain. A useless phone that nobody could track, nobody could call because there was no signal.

Her heart rabbited against her rib cage.

Sarah would find her.  All she had to do was wait.

She reached up for her ankle, and tried to untie the knots with her numb fingers before she had to fall down again, her breath trembling through her lips. 

“You should stop struggling,” a voice said.

Bela strained her neck, craning to see, but they must have been keeping in step with the clockwise turn of the rope. “I don’t take orders very well,” Bela said.

“It wasn’t an order--it was a suggestion.” 

The next round of rotations brought Bela within sight of the speaker, someone who wore torn blue jeans cut into daisy dukes and a dirty t-shirts with the neck cut out and long, dark hair, tied up in a loose ponytail.

“Well, I don’t take those very well either,” Bela said.

The speaker squatted down so that she was eye level with Bela. “Why not?”

“Well, would you take the suggestion from a stranger you didn’t know?” Bela said, trying on her most winning smile.

“Not from one who was hanging upside down, and didn’t know how to spot a rope trap,” the strange woman said. “But I grew up on this island. And I’ve been roaming the woods for years.”

“Well, what does that make you, then? A regular lumber jane, all holed up in a forest, mastering the backwoods? A real survivalist?” 

The woman stood up then, standing on her tip toes so that she could reach the knot. Her torn t shirt rode up her belly, revealing scrapes and scratches and scars.

“Can you untie it?” Bela said. “If you can, I promise you I’ll make it worth your while.”

“Nope,” the woman said. “This knot is a good one. But do you know what Alexander did when he came across a knot he couldn’t untie?” She twisted, and Bela saw that she carried a knife belted along the small of her back, and she drew the blade now with a soft whisper of metal against leather. She spread her legs, establishing an anchored root with the ground. “Why don’t you grab onto my waist?" 

And Bela did--she wrapped her arms around her waist, her cheek pressed against her thigh as she set to work cutting the rope.

Bela’s lower body fell, her legs crashing to the ground, numb and bloodless as blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy, and weak, as she clutched to the body of this woman who had cut her down, her feet struggling for purchase in the underbrush as she tried to stand.

“Easy,” the woman said. “Give yourself some time.”

“Easy for you to say,” Bela grunted.

The woman led her to a stump, guiding her down. She handed her a bottle of water, and Bela drank from it deeply. “So what do we do now?” Bela asked, wiping her mouth with her wrist.

“We could exchange names. I find that’s always a good starting place for meeting new people,” she said. “I’m Madison. Local here. Born and raised.”

“Bela Talbot,” Bela said. “From across the pond.”

Madison smiled. “I could tell. I’m guessing you’re here for the wedding.”

“One could say,” Bela said. 

Madison offered her a hand, but Bela ignored it as she pushed herself into a standing position. “I should really be getting back, I think,” Bela said. “I think I’ve had quite enough of the woods.”

“Do you know the way?” Madison asked.

Bela scanned the forest, trying to reconstruct the way back, but her time upside down had fogged her brain, made her too dizzy. “I’m used to being lost. I can find my way back.”

“Or, we could try a new plan, and I could just guide you back to the hotel,” Madison said. “It gets dark here at night, and there have been rumors of wolves in the forest.”

Bela stared at Madison, her eyes wide and searching her face. She seemed alright. Well-meaning, good-intentioned. But those were easy qualities to fake. Bela knew. She did it all the time. “Do you like what you see, Madison?” she said, putting her hands in the pockets of her leather jacket, posing a little, the same pose that had caught Sarah’s eye so long ago. 

Madison’s sure sense of bearing faltered a little, and Bela pressed her advantage. “Did you like me better when I was strung up or when I’m lost? Or is it all the same to you, since you get to be the one who saves me?” 

“Oh.” Madison said. “Listen--if you don’t want me to show you the way back, then I won’t. But for the record, I liked the part where we exchanged names the best.”

“Well you know,” Bela said, “in some lore there is a lot of power to be had from the knowing of one’s true name.”

“No lore that I know,” Madison said, folding her arms. “What about you? You gonna do some magic against me with my name?”

Bela looked at her feet, at the dirt and the weeds and the tree roots. “I can do so much more with your name than magic--I have my ways, my contacts.” 

Madison considered Bela. “Here’s the way I figure it. We have a couple options here. I can go ahead and show you the way out of the woods. It’s that way,” she said, pointing north. “I can also make you a map--” and she squatted down, cleared a smooth space with her palm, then scratched a rough sketch. “We are here--” she marked it with an x-- “and here’s a walking path that you can cut across to. It’s a little bit of a longer route back, but there’s no trees to get lost in. Third, you can either follow me or walk with me or ignore me.” She rose to her feet, wiping her palms on blue jeans. “I’ll leave it to you to make your choice. And here’s another bottle of water.” She tossed the bottle, then turned and began striding through the woods in the direction she said was north. 

Bela watched her--saw how her shirt rode up along the small of her back, revealing her tramp-stamp anti-possession tattoo, and just below that, the thin whale tale of a blue satin thong peeking over the low rise of her shorts.

Bela bit her lip, then shrugged. What the fuck--she wanted to get out of here, and Madison was probably her best chance at that without stepping in another trap with her eyes wide open. “Hey, wait up--”

And Madison did.

~*~

Sarah lingered in one of the party rooms, already festooned with white wedding bows and roses. The Dantes had a lot of art--all of it real, original.

Some of it was stuff that was supposed to have been lost to time or the sea or war.

If she were to even steal one of these artworks--she and Bela would be set for life. Well, at least until the end of the year when the hellhounds came for Bela’s soul.

She shook her head, frustrated. The Dantes’ were the top of the line, according to their intel, but so far, they seemed like every other aristocratic family who had too much money they didn’t know what to do with.

Still, this was only the second day, and a heist of this magnitude was never easy. She would just have to do what Bela did, get cozy with one of the ladies--Lily, preferably, but Meg and Ruby would probably do just as nicely.

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” a voice said, and Sarah turned and saw Lily behind her, leaning against the doorway, arms folded across her chest. Bangles dangled from her thin wrists, some slipping towards her elbows.

“They are,” Sarah said. She spared another glance, and then turned back to Lily. “Do you tend to collect art? There are some amazing pieces, here. Some that history thought for sure was lost forever?”

Lily took a moment before answering, her eyes cutting from Sarah to the art and back again. “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that. My husband is the one who tends to collect the art and bring it back here. Do you collect art, Ms--?”

“Blake,” Sarah supplied, reaching out her hand, then kissing her knuckles when Lily placed her hand in hers.

“How charming,” Lily said, laughing, but not removing her hand from Sarah’s grasp.

“Well, isn’t this a little bit like a court,” Sarah said, gesturing grandly around them. “I’ve heard rumors about the Dante parties, the get togethers, how their presence brings a lot of business to the island.”

“Well, Luke certainly does have his numerous enterprises,” Lily said. “Art, business, real estate, other ventures.”

Sarah slipped a little closer. “And what about you, though? What does the lady of the house do?”

“Oh, this and that,” Lily said, walking through the room, her hand trailing through the wedding ribbonry. “I’m essentially just a housewife.”

“No essentially or just about that,” Sarah said. “Housewives are very important.”

Lily threw her head back and laughed, her hair falling in loose waves down her shoulders. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Ms. Blake.”

Sarah mirrored the way that Lily had been leaning against the door. “Surely, you have some kind of hobby or something?”

“Parties,” Lily said. “Parties are my business. And just you wait to see the one I’m throwing for my daughter and son-in-law to be. In fact, the scavenger hunt was one of the activities I planned. Did you find all the objects already? There’s a prize if you did.”

Sarah licked her lips then laughed, nervously. “No, I actually. I hate tramping around in the woods.” 

“Well, there are walking paths. In fact, there are a couple of maps of the area just outside the door.” Lily checked her watch, made of a thin oval face and a delicate chain. “In fact, you’re only two hours behind everyone. I’m sure you can catch up. Here, I’ll share you a secret--one of the items is at the bar, and requires that the participants drink quite a bit of alcohol. But I’ll tell you the secret, and then you’ll be quite ahead of the game now, won’t you?” 

“I’m sorry, but I’m not much of a cheater,” Sarah said. “That’s more Bela’s style.”

“It wouldn’t be a cheat, if we made a deal out of it,” Lily said. “What do you say?”

“And what would the woman who already has everything--need or want?” Sarah said. 

Lily drew closer. “Nothing much, of course, just your soul.”

Sarah swallowed, forced herself to not take a step back. 

“I’m just joking, honey,” Lily said, putting her hand on her shoulder, and so Sarah forced herself a laugh. “I just want you to promise me that you’ll have a good time. My reputation, after all is at stake. Now, if you’ll excuse me--”

And then she was gone, and Sarah pressed herself against the wall, forcing herself to take deep breaths as she tried to calm the way her heart was jumping. Then her head fell against the wall. She had been close, so close, and--

It was okay. They’d never been so close. They had six more days for the wedding, and six more months until Bela’s deal tick-tocked into hellfire. 

And even then, after that? Sarah shook her head. Well, it wasn’t only tragic heroes who could go down into hell and back again. 

She would take Lily’s suggestion, she thought, and take the maps and see if she could hook up with Bela. Maybe they could try to find Uncle Crowley, who was one of the more notorious cross-roads demons. He had been upset last night, and it was possible he’d be in the mood to spill some beans, to get back at someone. 

But Bela was already coming up the walk--she looked tired and dirty, and she was accompanied with someone else too, a woman that Sarah didn’t recognize, a woman that looked like she made it her business to live in the woods. 

Actually, Bela was limping, oh my god, if something had happened--and Sarah was running down the walk, then slowing as she drew closer because she knew that Bela hated legitimate displays of affection that could betray any vulnerabilities. So instead of asking if she was okay, she asked, “Who’s your new friend?” 

“Madison,” the woman said, reaching out her hand, and Sarah gripped it.

“She cut me down from a tree,” Bela said.

Was Madison a hunter? Could they get her on their side? Did she know something about the Dantes and how they could get Bela’s soul back?

“Well, that was very kind of you,” Sarah said. 

“Oh, just doing what I can,” she said. “So this is the wedding, huh?” Then she turned back to Sarah and Bela, dropping a wink. “Is it a barrel of fun yet?”

“Would you like to join us for the rest of the evening?” Bela asked.

“Oh, no thank you,” Madison said. “These people. They make me nervous. Rich people tend to do that.” She scuffed at the ground with her boot. “Actually. I had a question. I don’t know if you’ll know the answer to it or not.”

“Oh, please,” Bela said. “Anything I can do for you after everything that you’ve done for me. Anything to make it square. I don’t like being in anybody’s debt.”

Madison’s lip twisted and her brow furrowed before she shrugged. “Is someone named Charlie here? She used to be a good friend of Sam’s, I think. And uh, it’s just been a while since I’ve seen her, and I don’t think that we have our numbers anymore.” 

“That long, huh?” Bela said.

“There is a Charlie here,” Sarah said, “but we don’t know her very well. We just saw her on the boat.”

“Did she look happy?” Madison asked.

Sarah considered. “She was laughing. Smiling. Drinking.”

“Crushing after us.” Bela laughed, and Sarah flushed scarlet.

“That’s good, that’s good.” She licked her lips, then said, “I’m gonna go find her, but uh, if I get caught I’m gonna say that we’re good friends, and I’m here because you asked me to be here.” She looked over her shoulder. “The Dantes don’t like uninvited guests. See ya.”

They watched her depart. 

“Can we trust her?” Sarah said.

“No,” Bela said. “We don’t trust anybody.”

~*~

“Does this island still not have wifi?” Charlie grumbled, shaking her tablet, as she walked along the path edging around the golf lawns.  An entire week of this, without...anything to download or to stream or to hack. Who the hell had a wedding in the middle of nowhere anyway? What if someone wanted to leave? But nope, now they were all trapped as nice and solid as if they were dwarves in Moria2. 

“To be honest, I couldn’t believe it when I heard you’d come back.”

Charlie stumbled around, mouth open as she saw Madison, sitting at the edge of the golf strip, peering up at her, her long, brown hair tied back in an unkempt ponytail. 

“I was like, Charlie, here? In bum-fuck nowhere, big city girl like you? No way. And yet, here you are.” 

Charlie’s hands went so numb she almost dropped her tablet. “Yeah. Here I am.”

“Were you even gonna say hi?” Madison said. “Or were you just gonna party it up and then leave?”

“I wasn’t sure how to find you,” Charlie said.

Madison scoffed. “You’re a hacker. You can crack anything.”  

“I didn’t know if I should,” Charlie said. “I wasn’t sure you wanted to see me.” 

“I don’t,” Madison said. “And I do. But I came to warn you.” She looked over her shoulder, then up in the sky, which was still mottled grey.

“About what?”

“This place is dangerous,” Madison said. “I don’t know everything yet. There are a lot of secrets. But there’s something in the wind. I can feel it coming.”

“Is this a wolf thing,” Charlie whispered.

“Maybe,” Madison said. “Something bad is going to happen, and I just don’t want you to get caught up in it.”

Charlie sat down, not next to Madison,  but somewhere in her general direction. “If you don’t want me here, you could just say so. You don’t have to pretend that all of this is just for my benefit.”

“It’s not,” Madison said. “I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know anything, I’ve just got a bad feeling about this.”

Charlie leaned closer to her. “I always knew you were a Jedi,” she whispered. “But you know that I can never be. Jedi are forbidden to--”

“Oh my god,” Madison said, burying her face in her hands. “You’re impossible.” 

Charlie was about to respond, when a gunshot split the air. She jumped, and Madison bounded to her feet, sniffing the air, tense and alert.

“Is that the bad thing you were feeling?” Charlie said, hoping her voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt.

“No.” Madison’s lip curled into a snarl. “It’s just Luke Dante hunting for sport.”

~*~ 

“Nobody,” Ruby said, her body pressed close against Sam, hand over his heart, “can shoot like Daddy can.”

Luke swung the rifle easily from hand to hand, like he was in show business. “That’s my girl,” he said, and she flushed, looking up at him and then at Sam again with stars in her eyes.

Cas was with them too, sipping a pink mimosa with a sullen look in his eyes as he watched Luke shoot another five flat disks with a bang-bang-bang that didn’t make him flinch because what was a gun compared to the weapons that Luke really had at his disposal?

Cas sighed, bored.

“You want to try again, Cas?” Luke said, offering him the rifle. “You were only able to shoot two of the five discs. But it’s not like this is an actual tournament. There are do-overs.”

“Oh please,” Meg said, “don’t make me laugh.Two is plenty good enough for Cas. Isn’t it, babe?” She patted him on the arm until he jerked away from her, and Luke laughed, and Lily did too, her hand covering her mouth so that nobody could see her strawberry lips or her teeth.

“But what about you, Sam?” Luke said, turning his back on Cas, and looking at Sam, arms wrapped tight around Ruby. “You want to try, prove how good you can be for your old man soon to be?”

“Oh, you wanna do this?” Sam said, as he caught the rifle Luke said. He loaded it, then took a casual glance down the sighting barrel before looking back over his shoulder at Ruby. “Get this,” he said, sly grin sliding across his face. Then he turned back to the blue sky. “Pull!” he shouted, and the smooth disks flew through the air, and his bullet shot them down, one by one, shrapnel dropping to the ground.

Except for the last one because Sam missed.

Behind him, Cas laughed. “Better luck next time, boy.” He blew past him, patting his chest derisively as he disappeared across the lawns.

Ruby folded her hands in Sam’s. “Ignore him, Sam.” She glared at him, then at the way Meg was sipping her drink, chewing on the straw that didn’t quite disguise her smile. “You’ll get there.” She leaned up, all the way on her tiptoes so that she could whisper in his ear. “I believe in you, Sam.”

“Well, at least someone does,” Sam said. 

“Okay,” Meg said, her eyebrows shooting up as she finished her drink. “I think if I listen to much more of this, or even see much more of this, I’m going to vom so--” she waved her hand. “Toodles.”

“Ignore them,” Ruby whispered as Sam bent down to her, so that their noses touched.

“They’re just jealous,” Sam said in return as he kissed her, lips on her mouth, then sucking hickies into her neck until they were alone. 

~*~

Lily went into her own, personal suite, exhausted from the sun, ears ringing from the noise. She filled a glass with ice, then poured cold water over the frozen cubes until it was at the brim.

Sweat beaded against the glass as she drank from it deeply, then pressed the half-full glass to her forehead, her neck, her sternum bare at the unbuttoned v of her silk shirt. 

She gasped when a firm hand fell heavy on her shoulder, fingers tracing through the wet on her skin, then all the way up to her throat, before squeezing gently against the soft yield of skin and flesh.

“I think you like it,” Cas grated, “when I’m humiliated.” With his other hand, he took the cold glass from her hands, then bound her wrist with his chilled palm. 

Swallowing against the pressure of his hand against her throat, Lily said, “Humiliation burns hot. Makes your flesh burn.” She licked her lips, then pressed against him, hips moving in slow figure-eights against his groin. “You know you like it.”

He twisted her wrists, skin burning, burning, until he released her and the blood rushed, painful. “Unbutton your shirt,” he said.

She did.

“Now the second one,” he whispered, his breath hot against her ear.

She did.

They both looked down at her breasts, at the simple white bra showing between her unbuttoned blouse. With his hand, Cas forced her chin up, eyes fluttering closed at the way his finger lifted against the jut of her chin, the dull pain there. “Did I say you could look too?” Cas said.

“You never said I couldn’t,” Lily breathed.

Cas pushed his thigh between her legs, brushing up against her white cotton panties. “On your knees--” his breath a hot, sheer slide down her spine.

She shuddered, biting her lips in anticipation as he let her throat go, and she heard the unbuckle of his belt, the way the leather slid from the cloth loops. She wondered--if he’d gag her with his blue tie, wondered if she wanted it bad enough to ask for it, or if she just wanted to take whatever Cas wanted-- 

“Safeword’s the same, right?” Cas asked, pausing as he held the belt in front of her throat. 

“Yeah,” she said. “C’mon, just do it like we talked about.”

He snapped the leather before her eyes so that she flinched against him, against his groin, and then the belt was at her throat, and her skin burned and burned for more. 

~*~

The beach party was supposed to have started when dusk fell, but the wedding guests, Victor included, had drifted to the beach when the first hint of sun shone through the grey canopy of clouds overhead.

Even the fishermen joined them when they pulled in their catch of the day. Victor saw Mike and Abbie show up--Mike casting his eyes for Dean like a lost puppy dog, Abbie pretending that she was too bored and too cool to really be here but hey whatever.

Bela and Sarah in their bikinis and sheer scarves tied around their waists as they cuddled together on their towel.

Victor drank a beer, and looked around for Kevin, but he guessed he wasn’t showing up. Not that he was surprised. Parties weren’t exactly his scene.

Sitting by himself with nothing but a beer hanging from his hands between his knees, Victor was beginning to suspect they weren’t his scene anymore either. 

“Ah fuck,” he said. If he was going to be miserable, he might as well have someone to be miserable with. He pulled out his phone, and scrolled through his contacts until he found Gordon Walker’s number.

“Victor?” came a disbelieving voice on the other end that picked up almost too fast, Victor thought, and it made him smile because yeah, it really had been too long.

“Come crash this party with me,” Victor said.

“Well technically,” Gordon said, “you’re not crashing because you’re on the guest list.”

Victor winced. “Well, technically, you could have been too.”

“Oh please, Victor old buddy, don’t make me laugh. Like I could ever be friends with someone like Sam. Have you seen his face, the way his mouth gets all pinched up when things aren’t going the way he wants them to?”

Gordon laughed because yeah it was true, it was too true. “C’mon, just come on down. Help a brother out.”

“Fine,” Gordon said. “But you owe me a damn beer.” There was a pause then Gordon’s voice, too close for it to be over the phone yet in the phone too -- “in fact, I think I’ll have that one, right there--” and he pointed to the one that Victor was holding as he snapped his phone off and the line went dead in Victor’s ear.

“Better luck next time,” Victor said, tossing him the bottle. “You’re lucky if there’s even a swallow in there. And you gave me so much shit and you were already here. I thought we were friends.”

“Well, actually,” Gordon said, looking at the bottle. “I was already on my way over here.”

“You were, huh?” Victor said. “Thought you didn’t like Sam, or the company he keeps.”

Gordon looked up at the stars, eyes landing on the moon, which was almost full. “I don’t.” He turned his head towards Victor, looking up at him as his thumbs rubbed slow circles into the empty glass bottle. “Do you know that the Dante family hasn’t been back to his family in such numbers since the Winchester murders? And that nobody had even heard of a Luke Dante until after the murders?” He put the bottle to his lips, but then remembered that it was empty. “I just find that a little strange. And, as they say, the devil’s in those small details.”

“According to Sheriff Mills,” Victor said, his voice dropping into a whisper, “the only demon on this island was Azazel. And it’s gone now. If that’s what you’re hinting at.”

“Yeah,” Gordon said, voice real slow. “That’s what she said. Was that before or after she found out it was possible to raise the devil with a mass sacrifice?”

Victor jerked a little. “What? You think that maybe Azazel managed to--”

“I don’t know,” Gordon said. “I just find it a little strange that the most suspect people, the Dantes, just happen to be able to lock themselves up all nice and tight with their money and their security gates that so conveniently keep people like me out, and that Luke Dante happens to be the most unapproachable people of the whole family--don’t you?”

“Demons aren’t the only dangerous things out there in the dark,” Victor said. “People are too. I mean, look at John Winchester. He was dangerous even before he got possessed.”

“It’s the principle of the thing, Victor.” He brushed his knees against Victor. “It’s the principle that I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. Don’t know who’s safe and who’s not. Don’t know how much even the sheriff knows or how invested she is in making sure we’re safe--or just that the people she cares about are safe. There are things on this island, Victor, that scare me. But every time I try to face it? I can’t. Something’s in my way.”

“Is that really why you came here tonight?” Victor said. “To face it?" 

“Yeah,” Gordon said. “I put a crucifix in their big, grand swimming pool. Turned the whole thing into a fish bowl of holy water.”

Victor laughed.

“I know, right?” Gordon smiled. “You’ll let me know what happens?”

“Hell yeah I will.”

“But,” Gordon said, “even though I was already here for the cross and the swimming pool, I still woulda come when you called. I was just already here.”

They gripped their hands together, tight, foreheads touching gently. “Thanks, man,” Victor said. “That means a lot to me. Whatever happens, I’m with you to the end of the line okay3?”

“I know,” Gordon whispered. “I know.”

~*~

Anna stretched out in the surf, hair floating in the soft tug and pull of the water like a halo. Salt dried on her skin, and she breathed deep, trying to sober up. She really hadn’t meant to drink so much and to eat that chocolate cake when she came here, had just meant to talk to Cas for a hot second but he was just--avoiding her, and doing it well.

She dug her toes into the wet sand, wet thighs sliding against each other, her hands heart-shaped around her belly button, little mermaid wanting to go back to sea.

It was time they both went home, maybe. 

“There you are,” he said.

Her eyes flung open, stung against the salt and the breeze. Sam stared down at her, long hair framing his face, drink with an umbrella in it like he was pretending they were some place tropical instead of north and gloomy Washington. He was wearing the maroon floral shirt, the one with the pattern on the inside out paired with his dark red shirt.

He paced around her, boots leaving deep imprints in the sand, water lapping at his laces. “I don’t recall seeing you on the guest list.”

“Sister of the brother-in-law,” Anna said. “Figured my presence was implicated.”

He squatted down, his shadow completely hiding her from the eye of the moon. “Well, you figured wrong.”

Anna laughed, her back lifting from the sand, water sliding between her breasts and her legs. “Oops.” She kicked the water, splashing them both. “What the fuck does it matter anyway. I’ve been here for a day, and the only person who’s given a shit is you--and it took you an entire day for you to get around to it. And would you fucking believe this?” she said, lifting herself onto an elbow. “Ruby and I--we’ve exchanged smiles. Even a small wave. Imagine that, right?”

The thin skin around his lips twitched. “I’m not here for Ruby or me, I’m here for Dean.” 

Anna rolled her eyes. “Dean and I were so yesterday. And besides it was a mutual fling with no strings attached so I don’t know why you care. Dean and I actually had a very pleasant conversation, and you know what? I think we might have several other ones because we’re friends. So why don’t you just butt out of it.” She looked up, eyes sharp. “Does Dean even know you’re here on his behalf?”

“Listen,” Sam said. “This is my wedding. I decide the guest list. And I want you gone. Find another place, but you can’t stay here.” 

“Fine, hot shot,” Anna said. “Consider me gone.”

~*~

Dean and Tracy walked up the beach, carrying graham crackers and hershey bars and marshmallows. “What’s a bonfire party without smores, huh?”

Tracy rolled her eyes. 

“We’ll talk about Los Angeles tomorrow,” Dean said. “That alright?”

“Fine with me,” Tracy said. She pointed. “Oh look, it’s your friend.”

Dean frowned at the way Tracy said that but she was right it was Sam and Anna--or what looked like maybe Sam escorting Anna off the premises. But that couldn’t be right. 

“Well, this is drama I just can’t wait to skip,” Tracy said, rolling her eyes. She took the goodies from Dean. “I’ll meet you up at the bonfire later, ‘k?”

“Wait--” Dean said, “what do you mean drama?” But she was already gone, and, as Sam and Anna approached, something did look wrong. She was soaking wet, with no towel, and Sam was in his jacket and dry, frowning big with his mouth turned downward.

Dean shrugged out of his coat and handed it to Anna as they approached. “You look kinda cold.”

“Thanks, Dean,” Anna said, looking at Sam with a sideways stare.

“Are you leaving?” Dean said. 

“Yeah, apparently I’m not on the guest list,” Anna said. “Guess my party-crashing days are over.” She looked at Sam again. “Remember all the parties we used to crash, Dean, back when we were in LA?” 

Dean smiled. Those were good times. “Yeah, how could I forget.”

Sam eyed them both, then said, “I’ll see what I can do about--”

Anna raised her hand, shushing him up. “You know what, Sam? Don’t worry about it. The Roadhouse is way more fun anyway, and Jo is much better company than any of these louses here." 

Anna strode past them, and Dean took Sam aside by his elbow. “Fix this, Sam,” he said. “She deserves to be here. We’re all friends here, okay?”

“I’ll do what I can,” Sam said. “I’ll do what I can, but you gotta know that my soon to be father-in-law is a real dick sometimes.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah what dad isn’t. Listen, I’m gonna make sure that Anna gets to the Roadhouse okay.”

Sam nodded tight. “Yeah. You do what you gotta do. I’ll do what I gotta do.”  Then he shared a smile. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Thanks, dude,” Dean said, patting his arm. “I really appreciate it.”

He ran after Anna and walked beside her, but her mood must have fallen or maybe it was the cold, because she didn’t say much to him--she just held his hand. And then they were at the Roadhouse, and Ellen and Jo were there and Ellen said, cupping Anna’s face in her palms, “You are frozen, child, let me get you something warm, something spicy and warm, okay?”

And they sat together, Anna wrapping her hands around the warm alcohol, sipping it slow. Jo joined them at the bar in her skin-tight jeans riding low on her hips, white apron tied loose just under the belt loops.

“Jo,” Anna said finally, “could you do me a favor and get something for Dean here. Put it on my tab.”

“Sure thing,” Jo said, pushing off.

Anna waited for Jo to get out of hearing distance and then said, her voice low, “I need to tell you something, Dean, something about me, but I don’t know how.”

Dean rubbed his temples. “You don’t have to, if you’re not ready.” He wrapped his arm around her, then kissed her temple as she squeezed his hand. “I”ll always be here for you.”

Jo came back then, plonking a cold bottle of beer in front of Dean. “Have any of you seen Casey?”

“Yeah, I don’t even know who that is,” Dean said.

Jo nodded. “That’s right. She came to the island after both of you left for good. She works a lot with Father Gil. She said she’d be dropping some things by for the wedding that Ruby asked for and that we were gonna go to the bonfire.” She sighed. “But that was like--supposed to have happened two hours ago. And she’s not answering her cell or maybe it’s just not receiving the call, reception’s so crappy around these parts.” 

Dean slapped his palm against the table as he downed the rest of his drink. “Sounds like we should go find her then, make sure she’s okay.”

“Oh,” Jo said, “I didn’t mean--”

“No worries,” Anna said, following Dean’s cue. “Let’s go find her.”

Casey appeared to live in a cabin up the bluff. It seemed nice enough, Dean thought. Had a sense of home about it, probably from the way the garden was running up close to the house, like it’d been there for a while but hadn’t been tended like it was a garden, but allowed to settle in like it was part of the family.

Jo knocked on the door first, then stepped back, head craning to look up at the upstairs window, skinny blonde ponytail falling between the ridge of her shoulders. “Don’t make me come down and kick your butt,” Jo shouted. She paced the doorstep, then kicked the rug back with her boot, revealing a rusted key.

“Why does everybody do that,” Dean said. “That’s like the very first place anybody is gonna look.”

Jo looked over her shoulder at him, smirking at him as she scraped it up. “Maybe out in LA but here? Nobody want nothing that’s not theirs.” 

“I am pretty sure that is not true,” Dean said. “I wanted lots of things that wasn’t mine when I still lived here, just like I do in LA.”

“Yeah but here,” Jo said, sliding the key in the lock, “we have your mom to kick anybody’s ass who don’t play fair.”

“And your mom to double team then and make them feel guilty as shit afterwards,” Anna said. 

Jo twisted the handle. “Sounds like you’re speaking from experience.”

“Maybe,” Anna said, dropping a wink. “Maybe you should ask your mom sometimes.”

Jo froze, her mouth open partways in chagrin, partways in distress. “Gross.” 

Anna laughed softly as they made their way through Casey’s living room. It was nice. It smelled like old coffee. And yep. There was half an apple pie on the counter. The kind with crispy-soft brown sugar topping. He could already feel his mouth watering. He was glad that he’d come along with Jo.

Casey seemed nice.

“Let’s just check her room right quick,” Jo said. “Then we’ll go to the bonfire and see if she already showed.”

They turned towards the stairs and Jo said, “Oh.”

Casey was still there, hanging from the steps. A length of thick rope held her neck at a crooked angle, her lips marbled blue, cheeks pallid and pale, eyes rimmed with a redness like poison.

“Oh god,” Jo said.

Someone grabbed his hand--it was Anna, her face taut, her mouth gaping, eyes searching as she looked at the body lazily swinging clockwise. “It’s starting,” she whispered. 

“Oh god,” Jo said again, voice even more desperate like someone was actually gonna hear, much less answer. “We have to get her down, we have to--”

She surged forward, but Anna held her back with a wiry hand, fingers curled into the tender hollow of her shoulder, pressing down on the tangle of nerves that made Jo cry out in pain. “We can’t,” Anna said. “We can’t disturb the body for the sheriff. She’ll need to collect evidence.”

“We can’t just leave her there,” Jo said, her voice thick.

Anna’s mouth hardened. “We can because she’s already dead. There’s no soul left in there to save.”

Anna fumbled for her cell phone, but there was no reception. Bolted to the wall, was a phone, underneath the old-time cat clocks, the one with the pendulum tails. Dean moved toward it, dialing 9-1-1. “I need to report--” a murder? a suicide? -- “a death.”

~*~

Maggie didn’t drink much now that she was a roller derby babe, and so she was still one of the only ones sober at the fire. People were all over each other, kissing, laughing, fighting. 

She heard the wail of sirens, and look back out and saw the blipping glow of red and blue, hurrying, hurrying, hurrying. Maggie figured it was alcohol poisoning or something like that. They’d be okay. The ambulance would get there in time.

Tragedy had had enough to do with this island.

She stepped back towards the ocean, but rammed into a solid line of flesh and bone that cursed as she stumbled back. She looked closer in the gloom. “Spruce?” She pummeled his arm. “Goddamnit man what the hell. Don’t sneak up on me like that.

“Jeeze, chill out Maggie.” Spruce sniffed deeply, rubbing his nose and his general facial region on the cuff of his sleeve.

Gross. “Is that a camera,” she said, catching sight of the slim grey case in his hand.

He gave her his best doped out smile. “Yeah. Me an’ Ed are gonna go ghost hunting. You wanna come?”

“I’d rather eat a mudpie thanks.”

“The alcoholic ones aren’t too bad,” Spruce said.

“Mudslides, Spruce. Mud. Slides.”

Spruce shrugged like he didn’t give a shit because he didn’t he never did. He didn’t even give enough of a shit to hone it into an artform. “Mud’s mud.”

“Get lost,” Maggie said, pushing him. “Film a ghost somewhere that isn’t within a mile radius of me.”

“God,” Spruce shouted after her retreating back, “has anyone ever told you what a bitch you are?”

“Only every damn day,” she said.

It was only the second day of the wedding, and she was already wishing she hadn’t come.

~*~

The party on the beach was so loud that Tamara could hear its vague din even though she was miles from the beach.

She hated that. Didn’t they have respect?

“Are you sure you want to do it today?” Missouri said, as she cleaned the table again, laying out herbs and spices. Pamela was already sitting down, her hands open, waiting for Missouri to take hold of one, and for Tamara to take hold of the other.

“Yes,” Tamara said. She couldn’t wait anymore. She glared in the general direction of the beach. “Think we could put some music on?”

“Sure thing,” Missouri said. Soon, Jimi Hendrix overpowered the bubblegum pop music at the beach, and it wasn’t that Tamara minded that sort of music, it’s just that she was too damn sad to listen to it right now.

And besides, Isaac had liked Hendrix. He’d been more of a music snob than her, and if she could have made him the gumbo they’d found in the deep south, she would have made that for him too.

Tamara joined her hands with Pamela and Missouri as they sat down at the table, and Missouri called for Isaac.

They waited, Tamara trying to let herself open up even though it made her feel vulnerable, like if she did nothing would happen, and all she’d be was a grieving widow fool.

“Isaac,” Missouri said again. “Your wife would like to speak with you if you’re still there.”

“Isaac,” Tamara whispered. “Come on, baby. I know you’re here.” Please be here. You’ve never abandoned me before, always at my side, just like the song.

A chill descended on the room, and Tamara shivered. Isaac’s voice was a cold whisper in her ear. _Tamara?_ He spoke.

Tamara nodded. Her tears froze against her cheeks.

_Why did you come?_

Because she had to. Because she loved him. Because she didn’t know what to do with her entire family slain from demons. “Because I miss you.”

 _I love you too_ , the cold whisper said. _And it’s because I love you that I’m telling you this: you need to leave the island. Something bad is going to happen. He’s coming back. Please be safe. Live until you’re old and grey._

“I don’t understand,” Tamara said.

 _He’s come back_ , Isaac said, and this time the goose bumps on her arm wasn’t from his ghostly chill. _Nobody’s safe_ , he said. _Please be safe. Live until you’re old and grey_ —

The record scratched off the player, and the chill disappeared. Pamela rose to fix the record while Tamara called out for Isaac again, softly, her voice breaking.

“What did he say, honey?”

“Not goodbye.” Tamara shook her head. “He said someone’s coming back, and that he wanted me to leave, to be safe.” Her eyes hardened as she raised them to Missouri’s gaze. “But if he’s referring to Azazel, then he’s mistaken if I’m going to let that asshole live after everything he’s done, everything he’s done to me and Isaac and our baby girl. He’s gonna pay.”  Her hand flexed in her lap. “He’s gonna pay.”

~*~

“C’mere, Ghosty-Whosty,” Spruce called. “Come on out and give Spruce a big ole scare.” He chuckled to himself and patted his video camera. He was gonna surprise Ed with like. The best footage he had ever seen in the history of well, ever.

Ghost-hunting was so much more fun high. He really hated that rule that Ed had enforced (that he was pretty sure Maggie had forced Ed to enforce) that there wouldn’t be anymore drugged shenanigans while on the job.

But what if like the job was a party.

And then, the next thing Spruce knew, he was tumbling into a big, giant pit, hurting his ankle and smashing his camera.

The camera he had spent good money on.

“Oh goddamnit,” he whined, then whined again as it began to rain.

But it wasn’t like any rain he’d ever felt, and that was saying something since he made it a point to stay out of the rain.

It was slippery and it smelled, really, really bad. 

Like his dad’s gasoline powered lawn mower. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Spruce said, faltering as the overwhelming smell of gasoline, well, overwhelmed him.

But the smell, already bad, only got worse when a shadowy figure dropped a box of burning matches all over his gasoline drenched skin, burning his flesh into an agonizing blaze of charcoal with no one around to hear his screams until he stopped because he was like, dead and gone already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: The Princess Bride
> 
>  
> 
> 2: Lord of the Rings
> 
>  
> 
> 3: Captain America, the Winter Soldier
> 
>  
> 
> 4: Emeli Sandé “Next to Me” [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nwdjQmc_N8)]


	4. Nerve

Sheriff Mills looked at the body. Casey had been a nice girl. “I need to know if it was murder or suicide, doc.” It hadn’t looked like suicide to her, but then she was old and suspicious and tired. She pulled a small leather bound diary from her pocket, flipped it until she found Casey’s name. Demon

So maybe it had been a kill. She hoped that one of those bone-knuckle hunters like Gordon or Garth or even the Harvelles God forbid hadn’t gotten it in their head to go investigating. They didn’t believe her anymore. Didn’t believe they were safe.

She needed to find out what happened. Find out who’d seen her, who she’d spoken with. She figured she might as well start with Father Gil. He was a demon too, after all. Said he appreciated the irony of it.

Well, she’d appreciate it a lot more if she didn’t have to deal with this bullshit.

~*~

“I’m gonna kill him,” Abbie said, pulling on her boots, the ones with the steel toes, the ones that hurt like hell, the ones she was gonna use to stomp someone’s face in, she didn’t care who, just as long as it was a hunter, a hunter with nice, breakable bones. And a nice, mortal heart that she could squeeze in her fist.

“You need to chill,” Mike said, elbows on his knees. “Do you even know who ‘him’ is?”

“I’ll figure it out,” Abbie said. Her red lips curled around her teeth. “I always do.”

“Don’t you want to make sure that you catch the real killer?” Mike said. “You’re going in guns blazing. We need to be smart.”

Abbie punched the mirror she was admiring herself in, broke it into shards that fell at her feet, broke her knuckles bloody. “Do you know the last time I went on a rampage?” She turned, red lips snarling. “Two hundred years ago. I’m due for another.”

“You must have been so pissed when Azazel drew the short straw, weren’t you?” Mike laughed. “God, I would have done anything just to see your face.”

“I can still kill you, you know,” Abbie said. “So don’t tempt me. You know how demons are with temptation.” She shrugged into her leather jacket. “We’re either really, really bad at it, or really, really good at it.”

Someone whistled outside, and Abbie’s head jerked toward the sound. “Hello,” she whispered, darting to the window, pulling the fringe of dirty curtain away, sucking on her lip as she watched Adam go down the muddy road, hands shoved in the pockets of his too-big hoody. She pointed her fingers into the shape of a gun aimed at his head. “Gotcha.”

Mike was instantly at her shoulder. “No,” he said immediately. “Don’t.”

“Last time I checked, you weren’t my boss." 

“Not, not Dean’s brother,” Mike said.

Abbie made pouty lips at him. “Oh right. You like Dean. Wanna keep him all for yourself.” She leaned forward, red lips right next to his cheek. “Well, too fucking bad. We don’t always get what we want. Didn’t your Daddy ever teach you how to share?” She smiled, hard and cruel. “Oh, wait.”

Mike stepped back, muscles cording and flexing. “You go too far this time.”

“Calm down. Nobody’s scared of you. You haven’t been scary for like, a millennia,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm. She leaned down, whispering in his ear. “But I am going to kill Adam, slowly, very slowly. Slow enough to send a message to any other hunter thinking about breaking this patchwork truce that that damned sheriff rag-tagged together.”

“Do you honestly think,” Mike said, voice steady and earnest as he switched tack--so obvious that Abbie just had to roll her eyes-- “that any kind of truce will hold together if you kill the sheriff’s son?”

“By adoption. Nothing’s real unless by blood.”

“Well, I always knew that this truce would never last forever and was shaky at best but if you are seriously going to tell me that you’re even remotely ready for it to come tumbling down, then--”

“What, because you losers aren’t ready? We’re demons, honey.” She reapplied her lipstick. “We’re always ready.” She stepped back again, looking out the window but Adam was already gone. “Good,” she breathed. “I always liked a good hunt.”

“Careful. You’re starting to sound like a real hunter. Speaking of whom, you should let the sheriff handle this.”

Abbie gawked around. “Yeah. Because she’s so doing that.”

“How would you know,” Mike said quietly, “when you’re too busy in here looking for revenge.”  His eyes caught hers. “I’ll stop you.”

Abbie’s eyes flipped black. “New plan. I really don’t feel like killing you, at least not yet. Not without a grand army behind my back, first knight in Lucifer’s army. But let me pose to you this scenario instead.” She pushed Michael into the couch, crawled onto his lap, hands heavy and hot against his chest. “I kill Adam to send a message. Poor Dean is distraught with grief and guilt -- Oh, Mike, I should never have left. I should have been the brother that Adam deserved. I should never have really given up the hunting life. I should--I should--I should--blah blah blah.” She gripped Michael’s chin, hard and cruel. “Who else is there to pick up the pieces, but you? The jilted ex boyfriend who still loves Dean even after all these long years.” She bit her lips. “Play your cards right, he’ll say yes to anything.”

He tensed, thinking about it, but he was already sold. She knew he would be. The thought of Dean eating out of his hand would be too much for him.

“Fine,” he muttered back, sullen.

She patted his cheek, insolent. “I knew you would see it my way.”

~*~

As her coup de grace, Abbie borrowed Michael’s truck because, in this one specific instance, it would serve her better than her motorcycle.

It was almost too easy to gun down the road, full throttle, metal music blazing as she banged the dash in beat with the bass, singing not necessarily along with the lead vocalists, but a shear-hearted scream that cracked the windshield before it fully shattered as she ran Adam off the road, bumper crunching against his soft human body in a way that was hugely satisfying.

Music still blaring, reverberating in her bones like her own trapped voice, she stepped out of the truck, prowling towards Adam’s prone body, sun glinting off her red, red hair, circling, circling, circling, admiring the way the blood seeped from his scalp, the crooked set of his shoulders before she shrugged and heaved him up by his armpits and stuffed him in the bed. She threw a dirty, blue tarp over him so no one would see and ask questions.

In a spit of mud and gravel, she flipped a u-turn, turned the music up even louder, and sped back to the shack that had been home for way too long.

~*~

Sheriff Mills clipped her shades to her glasses and drove a steady thirty miles per hour down the dirt road that lead up to Abbie’s place of residence. When she stepped out of the car, she gagged on the stench of deer carcass.

It’d been a long time since she’d gone hunting, but she was pretty sure that this qualified more as a slaughterhouse than a hunting lodge, which is what Abbie claimed it was. She shook her head in disgust, unpopping the snapped collar on the butt of her gun and-- 

“Oh, you won’t need that, Sheriff,” Abbie said behind her and, to what Sheriff Mills thought was to her credit, she did not fling herself around, gun sharpshooter ready. 

“And why’s that?” Jody said, turning around in her own good time.

“Because I’m a good girl, I am,” Abbie said, smiling, wiping deer’s blood from her hands with a stained, torn cloth.

Jody glared at the rag. “Like hell you are.” 

“Why are you actually here, Sheriff?” Abbie asked, yawning. “Because I gotta tell you, you being here is kind of a huge drag. You know, one of my friends died so I have some issues to work out. Stages of grief to grieve through---I’m particularly fond of the anger one.”

“That’s actually what I’m here about,” Jody said. “Just want to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.”

Abbie raised her hand like she was swearing a vow before a judge. Dried blood crusted her wrists. “Cross my heart and hope to die, I won’t do a damn thing until you’ve figured out who killed Casey.” Her smile vanished, she stepped up close to Jody and it was all she could do not to flinch. “And then I’m going to do what I do best--and you better not try to stop me, even if it’s one of yours.”

“I’ll hold you to your word,” Jody said. “Good day.” Then she got into her police jeep and drove away, heart rabbiting against her chest as she wiped the fear-sweat from her eyes.

It was only when she disappeared around the bend that Abbie dragged Adam from the bed of the truck, and strung him up in chains at the back of her slaughterhouse.

~*~

Dean hadn’t been able to sleep that night, hadn’t been able to do much of anything really. The sheriff had shown up because someone had called the police and they had--they had ushered everyone out, and the Sheriff had pretended that it wasn’t him who was there which was, which was well, it was just great.

Then they had sent everyone home and he had tried to sleep but he kept seeing Casey swinging, and swinging--he closed his eyes tight, tried to think of anything else, of but it was too hard, those red eyes, and then--

Dean shook himself, took a hot shower until the water turned cold. He shaved, this time with his straight razor instead of the disposable razor blades so that he would be forced to pay close attention, to the shape of his face, the tender yield of his throat, scraping all that white foam away, leaving his skin soft as he touched it with his knuckles.

Maybe he should see Mike. He bit his cheek because he’d told himself that he wouldn’t do that, it was too dangerous, it was too nice seeing Mike. “Screw it,” he said, pulling on his simple white tee and shrugging into a jacket. 

It was only then that he realized he couldn’t remember where Mike lived. But that was okay. All he needed to do was to find someone who knew everyone in this small, little island. He retraced his steps back to the Roadhouse. It wasn’t open, technically, but he saw Ellen in there, cleaning the countertops, so he tapped the window gently.

She jerked her head up, hand going to the small of her back until she aborted the movement when she saw who it was. “Hey Dean,” she said, after she unlocked the door. “It’s a little early to be drinking, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t come for that,” Dean said. “I came for information.”

“Oh.” Ellen laughed. “Well, that I got in spades, but it really kind of depends what you’re looking for.”

“I just need to know where Mike is this time of day?”

“Asscrack of dawn you mean?” Ellen asked.

Dean looked up at her, a little sheepish. “I just.”

“Yeah, I know, hun. I get it.” Ellen wiped a glass clean of water and then set it on the shelf behind her. “He’s probably hanging with Abbie right now.”

Dean didn’t quite stop the unhappy eye-roll that took over his face 

“Yeah, that I don’t get,” Ellen said, nodding her head. “But hey, who am I to judge the company a boy keeps?”

Dean kicked the edge of the bar. “So where am I gonna find her?”

“Up north. In her hunting lodge.” Ellen said. “Just find the dirt path and trudge on up. Everyone hates going up there--except for Mike, I guess.”

Dean walked around the bar, elbow leaning on the bar. “Thanks, Ellen, you’re the best.”

“Oh, c’mere, Dean,” Ellen said, bringing him close into a bear hug. She hugged him tight, and Dean closed his eyes against her shoulders. “I’m so glad you’re back.”

“I can’t--stay.” His voice came through muffled and a little wet against her shoulder.

“Yeah, I know, hun, I know. Too many bad memories here.”

He nodded, and she smoothed her fingers through his hair, tracing the flow of his cowlicks.

“You get gone now,” she said. “I’m busy.” But she still held him a little longer before she pushed him away.

“Thanks, Ellen,” Dean said, on his way out.

~*~

Ellen hadn’t been kidding when she said the road was dirt and that it was terrible and that it was no wonder that nobody ever went up there. He would never bring his baby up here, not on his life. Grimacing in disgust, bundling his fists up tight in his pocket, he trudged his way up the path, and he climbed and climbed until his legs got sore, until he thought that maybe this was the wrong path, and it was then that he saw a ribbon of smoke that he made his way towards.

But then there was the smell, and Dean pressed his palm against his mouth, biting the inside of his wrist to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

Did Mike like actually come up here, regularly?

Well, he always did say that he had a stomach of steel.

“Mike?” he called. Then, “Abbie?”

But there was no answer. In fact, there was nothing but silence. Not the sound of the birds or the whisper of insects. Danger crawled up his spine, and the old instincts began to settle in, and he swallowed down the lump in his throat, and every sense that screamed to run away and to not look back, to not come back.

This was a bad place.

He licked his lips, desperately wished he had a weapon, but he was on vacation.

Why the fuck would he need a weapon on vacation? To see one of his best friends get married?

He shook his head, disgust seething and roiling in his stomach as he rounded the corner and came upon the dump, the same, dump in fact, that was currently spewing the ribbon of smoke that had originally guided him here in the first place. 

There was no fire, that he could see. 

“Oh, Jesus,” Dean said. Then, once more, cautiously this time, “Mike?” He licked his lips, nervous. He scrubbed his hand through his hair. “Oh fuck this.” His danger, danger will robinson sense was overwhelming, and he figured it was about time that he started listening to it.

A muffled scream pulled him short, and he cursed himself quietly. “I swear to god, Mike, if this is you and Abbie having some weird fucking sex thing--” as he found himself a nice heavy piece of wood that weighed good in his hand.

He pushed his way into the lodge, and pulled up short when he saw Adam. Blood crusted his face, chains, chafing his wrists, held his arms above his head, stretching his bare torso, hollowing his gut so that each scraping breath fluttered through him frail and fragile as his feet scraped for purchase on a wobbly stool.

“Hey,” he said, “It’s alright--” as he dropped the wood and stumbled towards him, towards Adam. “God, what the hell--” as his fingers fumbled with the chains.

Abbie stepped from the gloom. “Sorry, Dean. God’s not at home right now.” Her hair, usually so neatly pinned up, hung in a hazy gleam of flyaways around her cheeks. Her red lipstick was smudged around her lips--not so much like a clown but like she’d forgotten to wipe her mouth. Her black, the devil-made-me-do-it shirt was ripped and stained with blood--deer’s blood? Adam’s blood? Dean didn’t know, just that the mere sight of her made him sick.

Adam’s dull eyes caught sight of Dean, and he swallowed down a whimper, trying to find that devil may care grin, the one that said eat shit and die.

“You’re probably thinking you shouldn’t have dropped that piece of wood right now,” Abbie said, as she reached out quick as a viper to kick it away.

“Let him down,” Dean said. “Let him down, now!”

Abbie exaggerated a double take. “On whose authority? Yours?” She laughed. “You can’t even fight me in a bar what makes you think you can take me down in my own home?” She didn’t do anything as stupid as turn her back on Dean, but she tutted warily, “No, no, no. Adam’s mine, and you best go home, big brother, so that I don’t make mincemeat of you too.”

“You can’t just take people and call them yours, Abbie,” Dean said.

She stepped in close, almost close enough to strike, almost. “I can when they kill my friends.”

“You have friends?” Dean said. “Who fucking knew?”

“Very funny, Dean. But yes, Casey was my friend, and a hunter killed her, so I’m going to kill a hunter.”

Dean’s eyes shifted, searching her face, looking for answers underneath the grime and the blood and the smoke. “Casey was a --”

“Oh, you don’t know, do you, lost little lamb? Sent away so that you don’t get involved in all these sordid, little affairs, of shady deals with devils.” Her white teeth sank into her lip, smearing her incisors red. “There are all sorts of things that go bump in the night here. Hunters too, sitting tight on their knives and their guns and their salt, just waiting for one of us to toe a line, to cross it. Or maybe--they just got bored, and decided to do Casey in.” Her head fell back, neck double jointed as the curve of her spine bent backwards under the force of her laugh. “Not that I blame them.” Her body snapped upwards, back into offensive stance, prowling around them both. “Even I get a little bored too, sometimes.”

“What are you, a demon?” Dean snarled. He wasn’t prepared for a demon. There hadn’t been demons on this island since--

Something hard glinted in her eyes, and she refocused them sharply on Dean, shaking her head. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Dean raised his hands, stepped between her and his brother. “Listen, Abbie--or whoever you really are--I may be out of the loop about what’s going on on this island. But I do know two things. Casey’s death--wasn’t a hunter kill.”

“Unless they were trying to pretend they weren’t hunters,” Abbie bit out.

“Two,” Dean went on, resolute, “I swear to god and the devil both, that if you kill my brother, you’re next.”

Abbie rolled her eyes, hand fluttering over her heart. “Oh, Dean. Stop. You’re scaring me.”

The soft click of a gun and Jody stepping from the shadows interrupted them. “You should be scared, Abbie. You lie to my face? Take my son?”

Dean took his cue, rushing to Adam, and unlooping the chain from the rafters. Adam cried out as Dean gently lowered his arms, and guided him from the rickety stool.

Abbie raised her arms in a half-surrender, half-conciliatory way. “Whoa, Sheriff. Let’s not be hasty.” She sucked on her lips. “Those trapped bullets you got in there?”

“Gunpowder and salt from holy water,” Jody said. “Think fast and hard, Abbie, because I’m taking you in, one way or another.”

“Oh,” Abbie said, with relish. “I just love a good threat--” she got down on her knees, hands clasped behind her head -- “when I know you have the punch to follow through. Don’t hurt me too much, Sheriff, even though I think you might want to. Wouldn’t want me to like it too much, would you now? ‘Cause that’d be more like a reward than a punishment, right?”

Jody walked behind Abbie, still not taking the gun from her. “Get Adam outside, Dean.”

“We need to talk,” Dean hissed.

Jody looked up at him, and he was stunned by how old she seemed. “We will. I promise. But get my son to a hospital.” She tossed her keys to him. “Take the jeep. Turn the sirens on.” Then she pressed the radio pinned to her collar. “This is Sheriff Jody Mills requesting backup at--” 

Her voice faded away as Dean headed on out, half-carrying, half-dragging his brother.

~*~

“Is he gonna be fine, Doctor?” Dean said, head in his hand.

Tessa flipped her sheet down. “Yeah, he will.”

“Well, can I see him?”

Tessa looked at him, and sighed. “He might not want to see you. He’s just been through a traumatic experience, and from what I understand, you two aren’t on the best of terms.”

“Yeah well, I need to make sure he’s okay. I need to be there for him.” Dean lowered his head, shaking it, hoping that the tremor he felt in his throat and his lip was his imagination. He should have been here. He should have come back sooner. And it didn’t matter how much he told himself it wasn’t his fault, he was only a teenager when Sheriff Mills had sent him away, what did she expect him to do just come back when she never reached out when she never even responded to his emails or his texts or voicemails--

“You okay, Dean?” Tessa said. “If you need to see someone about what you saw, I can refer you to someone.”

“What?”

“Seeing something like that is also traumatizing, Dean,” Tessa said. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“No, I’m fine--I’m totally fine. Thanks, Doc.”

“Yeah. No problem, Dean. Just. Make sure you take care of yourself, okay?” 

Dean jerked a wave and a half-hearted thumbs up in reply and made his way towards Adam’s room, swiping green and orange jello cups as he did so. Adam’s eyes were closed when he came in, so Dean came in quietly, setting the food on the counter by the bed. An IV was plugged into his arm, dripping fluids into his system.

He wondered how long Abbie had had him, and felt sick.

“I know you’re here, Dean,” Adam said through cracked lips. “But you can go now. It’s what you’re best at.”

Should he slide closer? Keep his distance? “I don’t want to fight, Adam.”

“Good. Neither do I. Had enough of that for one day. So why don’t you leave, so that we won’t end up fighting.” 

Dean forced himself to breathe slow, to breathe evenly, but he pulled at his lips with his teeth, and he said, “Okay.” He found a piece of paper and scribbled the number to the phone in his room. “My number since the cell reception’s so bad here. In case, you know.”

Adam didn’t answer, and Dean slipped out the door. He paced the halls, hands behind his head, heart rabbitting against his chest, refusing to calm the fuck down even though the danger was past.

He needed answers. He needed to know what the hell happened and why he was being kept in the dark. He knew what was out there, he knew that his whole family had dedicated their life to keeping this island safe from those who would do them harm--human or otherwise.

If Abbie really were a demon--and if Sheriff Mills knew that, then--why? Who else was out there?

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted under his breath.

He had to go home--someplace he knew he didn’t want to go back to, a place he’d once wanted to go back to for so long, it had hurt so bad, but then that want had grown cold, so cold when nobody told him to come back, they wanted him back, they loved him, and it’d turned into this thing with sharp edges that just hurt and hurt and sometimes he’d forget about it but it would never ever really go away.

He forced himself to breathe, just breathe, and looked at the Sheriff’s keys, jittering in his shaking palm and decided that he should probably just walk instead.

When he came to the house, he paced in the driveway, rubbing his palms, reciting the pep talk he used to have to give himself every day just to get back out of bed, when it got real bad those first few years. “You can do it, Dean. Just gotta get up--up and at ‘em. You’re Dean Winchester. This is what you do. You do the thing that needs to be done. Because you’re brave, and you have to keep on being brave because that’s what she’d want you to be.”

Short, sharp exhalations out, long, deep inhalations in. One, two, three. He raised his knuckles to the door, and knocked. 

Nothing. No answer.

The let down after the build up left him feeling on edge, worked up, belly perpetually taking a nose dive. Then he remembered that this wasn’t LA anymore, and he kicked at the mat and looked under the flower pots clustered at the door until he found the spare key, which slid in smooth as anything, and unlocked the bolt with a soft click like it wanted him to come in. 

He swallowed and looked around the living room. There were pictures. Pictures of Mary and the Sheriff and Bobby--and Dean and Adam--some even of Dean and Sam together. There was a recent one of Adam, arm around a goat. He looked out the back window--there it was, grazing on the grass. It must have sensed Dean, because it looked up, and bleated sadly before returning to the dash.

A goat. Weird kid.

He looked back at the pictures, thinking how the Sheriff hadn’t even given enough time to really pack up the things that mattered the most to him. 

He shook his head, and out of morbid curiosity, he thought he’d go ahead and check out his room. But then, his way was blocked by the ladder leading up to the attic being let down, without anybody putting it up again.

Unless--”Mom?” he called as he started to climb up the ladder. “Mom?”

But there was no one up in the attic, and Dean looked around, deflated, sad, and wondering if he should wait or if he could, just go, and this time not come back, like really not come back, when he saw the pictures pinned to the walls.

Pictures of John Winchester--and not family pictures, either. Pictures that were dated after the slaughter, pictures of places where John Winchester would never be--pictures of him in San Francisco, Denver, and, with a sickening lurch in his belly, Los Angeles.

And then there he was, John Winchester with his yellow eyes, a camera flare thing written in red and question marks, even though she knew, she knew that it wasn’t a camera flare thing it was a demon thing, a devil thing, and she’d put him down, she’d put him down like a hunter put down a wild thing, and it was done it was over, it was supposed to be over--

but it was all coming back. 

it could all happen again.

and again.

and again.

His tried to catch his breath, clutched the table for support, breathed in John Winchester’s stale air and saw nothing but his cold, dead brown or yellow eyes like they were the only thing in the whole wide world that mattered, all consuming now in the day and not just his dreams and his nightmares and his memories.

He stumbled down the ladder, his bones shaking, his teeth chewing up the inside of his mouth like meat.

He never should have come back, Jesus Christ.

And then, as he stumbled down the drive, he remembered what Tracy had said. That she’d been seeing John Winchester. He wondered if the Sheriff knew. If she had let Tracy think she was imagining it.

What had happened in the years since he’d been gone? What the hell had happened?

~*~

Ruby and Meg looked down at Casey’s corpse, the sheriff behind them, arms folded. “I really, really hope you can explain this, Sheriff Mills, because it doesn’t look good that a demon just died.”

“Hunters don’t have the ability to kill demons,” Jody said. “You know that.”

Ruby smiled, soft and sly. “Not without help, at least.”

“Does it look like they had help? Strangulation only kills the host, not the demon.” Jody unfolded her arms and stepped up close to Ruby and Meg. “And you know that. You know. There is absolutely no way any of my hunters had anything to do with this because we simply don’t know how.”

“But I bet you wish you did, don’t you?” Meg said. “I bet you’ve been working on something like this ever since you made that little deal.” She flicked some dust from her leather jacket. “Feeling a little bit dirty?” 

“You know the thing about demons?” Sheriff Mills said, “is that they just never stop coming back. They’re worse than bad pennies.”

“That’s what I like best about us,” Meg said. “We’re forever.”

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Do you have any suspects, Sheriff?” 

“Well, I did lock up one person today.” Jody looked them both in the eye. “You know what that person did? She took my son, strung him up like he was one of her goddamn deer, and thought to make an example to us all, on my son.” The last words came out with spit as she pounded a finger into Ruby’s chest. Ruby looked down at the finger like it was some kind of bug.

“We’ll take care of it,” Meg said.

“As I said, I’ve already locked your attack dog in the cell. You can have her back when we’ve got this whole thing figured out.”

Ruby and Meg took a step back, their leather jackets tight across their shoulders as they folded their arms across their chest, leaning in close as they whispered to each other.

Jody rolled her eyes.

“We’re okay with that.” 

“Good, because you didn’t have much choice in the matter,” Jody said.

Meg exaggerated a shiver. “You’re so scary when you’re angry, Sheriff.” She curled her tongue around her lip, smirking.

“Shut up,” Jody said. 

Ruby leaned in on the other side of her, and whispered, “Make us.”

Jody pushed them away, a fist buried in both their guts, but they didn’t even pause, didn’t even double over. They both shook their heads, then lifted a single hand over their heads in mocking farewell as they left.

Their smiles faded though as they went out of sight and hearing of the sheriff and her offices.

“This is bad,” Ruby said. ”Sheriff was right. There’s no way one of them did it, even if they’ve been itching to do it for years.” She looked up under her lashes at Meg. “But you know who could have done it.”

“Angels,” Meg said. 

Ruby nodded, an already raised eyebrow rising even higher.

“Cas?” Meg asked, then laughed. “I’d like to see him grow the nerve to do something that rebellious. Besides I’m pretty sure he was having his daily dalliance with--” she coughed into her palm. “I mean. You know. You must know.”  

“Know what?” Ruby said. 

“About Cas and Lilith. Duh. Everybody knows. Apparently, Cas is feeling little league and is trying to make it with the big boys or something.” Meg rolled her eyes. “I honestly don’t know why she indulges him. It’s pathetic really.” She sighed, chewing on her lips.

“Does it bother you?” Ruby said.

Meg shook her head. “Not really. He’s got an itch. Not that I blame him for that one. We used to prowl the world like lions, and now we’re here, stuck until the last play’s been made for this whole house of cards. We’re practically hostages. Making sure both sides play nice until the grand finale because of the meddling of that damn sheriff.” Then she laughed. “Isn’t it funny, how she still managed to get the drop on the angels? Tried to get it on us too but we were too good for her.” She bit her lips. “If it wasn’t us, and it wasn’t hunters, then it probably was angels--but if I were you, I’d be looking at Michael, and not Cas.”

Ruby nodded. “Yeah, I get it. Michael’s chafing. I’d love to see our --” she made air-quotes with her fingers -- “attack dog’s face when she found out that instead of her making a tool of him he’d made a tool of her.” She licked her lips with relish. “Classic.”

“Should we tell her?” Meg said.

Ruby smiled and slung her arm around Meg’s shoulders. “No. I don’t think so. Let’s tell her when we can really target that anger and rage, already simmering and about to boil in the pit of that jail cell.”

“We should probably figure out if there’s been any other unexpected deaths on the island. Might help us figure out who killed Casey.”

“I haven’t heard anything. But I’ll keep an ear out.” Ruby frowned. “You know who I haven’t seen sliming his way through the joint? Crowley.”

“Who cares if that creep is dead,” Meg said. “I’d thank whoever did it personally. Almost sad I didn’t do it myself.”

Ruby side-stepped a puddle. “Yeah but if Crowley is missing because he’s dead, then that means that that’s another demon targeted--which would be bad for us. At least, when we still have to worry about hunters and angels. Once they’re out of the way, we can take care of our own internal squabbles, as bloodily and ruthlessly as we like.”

“Alright. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.”

“But not right now,” Ruby said. “It’s dark and cold, I wanna get home. I might hit up Anna later if I can find her. She might know something. Hell, maybe that’s why she came back, because she knew something. And she’s not on anybody’s side, not anymore.”

Meg’s eyes widened as her mouth dropped into an o. “Right, Anna. Hitting her up for information. That always goes so well.”

Ruby pushed Meg hard. “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

“But I just like it there so much.”

~*~ 

Boy howdy it had been a day, Garth thought as he slipped through the rooms with his duster and his cleaning rags and his salt and his holy water hidden under the laundry hamper he rolled around.

Though why they should be concerned about some dead demon was more than he could muster, but still, he did as Jody asked, cleaning up all the rooms and snooping and spying to see if everything was on the level. 

Of course, it was a little hard determining that since he wasn’t quite sure what was going on but then, who ever was, right? But he figured that a brief-case full of cash in Mr. Crowley’s room was plenty suspicion enough, so he hid that too and finished his rounds and, just as the cold was really beginning to set in, carried it from the premises like it was his and no one stopped him and said boy where you going with all that cash because he was just that smooth.

It also helped that he did not see a single soul, considering they were either partying it up still or turning in early because of the death which, judging from the whispers he’d heard, most folks were deeming a suicide. 

He shook his head. Guess it was nicer being in the dark anyway. He took a few more steps when a shadow crossed his path. His face lit up. “Oh, hey friend--”

Nobody heard the gun or the bullet shattering Garth’s skull. Nobody heard the dead whump of the body as someone hauled it into one of the boats, and set it adrift.


	5. Bachelor

It was hard to believe that the wedding was still a thing that was still going to happen despite the incident with Casey (apparently, no one in wedding attendance had been close to her) and the other incident with Adam (apparently, everybody was pretending it hadn’t happened, including Adam, who had already left, and the Sheriff, who wasn’t returning his calls which was oh so typical) so yeah the surreal reality was that the wedding was still a thing.

That was happening.

And he still hadn’t finished his gift for Sam and Ruby too. Finished because he had decided to make a gift because what do you give the couple who could literally buy whatever the hell they wanted because they had more money than Dean could ever imagine. Like, maybe one day he’d be that sci-fi author that made it big, got it so big he had his own franchise and his own verified twitter account, but right now he had a day job to supplement the poor writer income and it wasn’t--it was just.

He shook his head.

He just hoped that they were both into scrapbooks because that’s what he was getting them. Just a little something from their childhood together. How they’d spend the summers fishing and swimming, how they flopped in the grass under those rare days when the sun shone really, really bright and it was warm and safe and that sort of feeling that nothing could ever go wrong, that fragile, most real feeling ever. 

Sam had told him that those were the best summers of his life, that even though he went down south, south to warmer climes during the spring and winter, it was the summer he looked forward to the most, the summers that made his life worth living he’d said.

So Dean had collected all the pictures he could find, unpacking boxes layered with a film of dust--boxes he’d written the Sheriff for and he almost couldn’t believe it when they had showed up on his front porch. But he hadn’t been able to open them until he’d received the invitation--and sometimes--like now as he clutched it to his chest, on his way to the newspaper office--they just made him so sad, like there was this wound, like the one that John Winchester had given him, the one that still pained his shoulder, and it just wouldn’t heal, no matter how much time had gone by, no matter how tenderly he cared for it, it would just never grow into a full-blown hurt but would just ache, like a constant presence, like a ghost that would never go, no matter how much salt got poured in the wound.

He jumped, staggering into a puddle and getting the bottoms of his slacks wet when a car honked at him for trying to cross the street when the light was a bleary red warning him to stop but he hadn’t seen it. “Sorry,” he said, “sorry,” even though the driver’s window was rolled up, and there wasn’t a way he could hear, and then there was that jack-knife pump of blood and shame and embarrassment and he wished he hadn’t actually gotten out of bed this morning.

He was still barely registering what he was seeing when he pushed his way into the newspaper office until he saw her at the counter and he stopped up short. “Cassie? Cassie Robinson?”

“Dean!” Cassie’s eyes grew wide with her smile. “I didn’t know you were here. I’ve been so busy, doing archive work about the history of the island I completely forgot the wedding was this week.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, looking at the way Cassie’s hands were folded over each other, the silver rings glinting on her fingers. The way her curly black hair haloed her head. “It’s a real something isn’t it.”

She nodded. “Yeah. They must have a lot of great food.”

“And beer,” Dean said, tipping an imaginary cap. 

“Are you the one who asked for this?” Cassie said, holding up a picture of Sam when he was just a kid, holding up a huge fish.

 Dean couldn’t even remember what kind of fish it was as he took it from her. “Yeah, I am.”

“Cute picture,” Cassie said. “It’s weird it’s one of the reasons why I started the archive project, actually. That and because Gordon asked me to look into some stuff.” 

“Stuff?” Dean said, slipping the picture into the scrap book.

“Yeah.” Cassie’s face turned her serious, and she looked down at the counter biting her lip. “Some seriously disturbing stuff about the um. You know.” She scratched her brow and looked out the window. “The Winchester murders.” 

Dean’s face blanched. “That’s not um exactly bedtime reading.”

“I know,” Cassie said, her voice low and hoarse. She licked her lips like she was easing the way for hard words to somehow come out less hard, less brutal. “Something’s going on, Dean, something’s weird going on about this. I mean we already know that John Winchester was possessed by a demon, but we’d always just assumed it was typical demonic destruction but I’m pretty sure we were wrong about that.” She saw his face, and said, “Do you want me to stop talking because I can, until I know for sure?” 

Dean shook his head. “No, it’s okay. I just thought, I just thought this whole thing was over, y’know? Like it was dead and buried but it just, it just keeps cropping back up again.”

“What do you mean?” Cassie said. She leaned towards him across the counter, catching his hands with hers. “Have you seen something?”

Dean took a breath. “Maybe. I was in the Sheriff’s house. I wanted to talk to her about what happened to Adam, but she wasn’t there. So I, uh, did something that I shouldn’t have done and I poked around and I saw a bunch of pictures of John Winchester--dated after his death." 

“Like John Winchester, or a man with yellow eyes?”

“Both,” Dean said. “John Winchester with yellow eyes, John Winchester without yellow eyes.” His voice pitched high, and shook. “John Winchester in Los Angeles, San Fran, Denver, New York.” He shook his head. “It’s not right. He’s supposed to be dead.” He barely felt the sting in his palm as he slammed his hand down on the hard wood of the countertop.

“Hey,” Cassie said. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Dean squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t think it will be. But what, um, what did you find?" 

“I found out that there was no record of Luke Dante before the massacre,” Cassie said. “Weird, right? Like he was just supposed to have been just another rich bag of dicks just swanning on in here like it was his island or something right--that’s what I thought but nope, no records of him anywhere in any state or any country until after. Like, I don’t even know where he got his money from. No records of it--well, real records. There are some fake ones--and they did a great job of that by the way--but not good enough for me--” she tapped her lip, nodding quickly. “And then I hit up our duo psychic team, Pamela and Missouri, to see if they knew what a massacre of that size could do--or um,” Cassie coughed--”bring back. And apparently, a massacre could have brought back something or someone from hell with more juice than we’ve ever encountered before.” She stepped back from the counter, her throat working up and down as she tried to find the next words. “Wow, that just really scared me, you know. So I went to your mom, since she’s the sheriff, but she told me to drop it. That was really weird,” she said. She leaned forward, winking conspiratorially. “I didn’t drop it, of course." 

“Of course not,” Dean said, smiling something that looked like a smile but wasn’t. “What else did you find?”

“Absolutely no supernatural phenomena for the past seven years,” Cassie said. “You know, your mom and Bobby would always tell me to keep an eye out for strange events, right? Not just on the island, but everywhere. And supernatural events happened everywhere else with alarming occurrence. But on the island. Nothing. It just stopped.” She spread her hands out in a silent bomb gesture, letting out a soft puff of air as she did so. “No monsters, no ghosts, no demons.”

“That should be a good thing,” Dean said, weakly.

“I know,” Cassie said. “Why look a gift horse in the face? Damn my curiosity. But then there’s this, too.” She ducked down beneath the counter, and came back up with a picture of a John Winchester and Luke Dante golfing together. “One of the hunters in Florida sent me this.”

“They’re friends?”

 “I think the demon and Luke Dante are friends,” Cassie said. “But I can’t prove anything. Which is really, really frustrating.”

“There are still monsters on the island though, right?”

“Oh yeah. I mean it’s not like I have an entire list because that’d be bad and unethical, but Madison’s still here. She said she’d come down later but I think Charlie’s arrival may have distracted her.”

“Madison is um, safe to be around? Full moon’s coming up I think." 

Cassie rolled her eyes. “Of course she’s safe to be around. Don’t forget, someone did this to her. She’s a victim, and I think your family forgot about that when they wanted to put her down like she was some kind of monster.” She glared at Dean.

“We didn’t know, Cassie,” Dean said, hiding his eyes behind his hands.

“You didn’t take the time to find out, either." 

“What do you want me to say, Cassie? That I’m sorry? Because I am.”

“Have you told Madison that?”

“No. I’ve never really had an occasion to since we’re not...actually friends. Or on friendly-ish terms with her.”

“Yeah I guess it would help if you weren’t shooting silver bullets at her.”

Dean sighed loudly. “I know. I just don’t understand why monsters would stop acting like monsters. Why would vampires stop needing to feed on human blood or why would werewolves not go full out beasty-mode during the full moon--”

“--they do--”

“--and I don’t get why monsters would stop looking at humans like they’re not part of the food chain anymore.”

 “Well,” Cassie said, “I think you’ll need to talk to your mom about that one too.”

“Maybe I will,” Dean said. He saw his watch. He was late. Sam would be pissed. “Listen, Cassie, I need to go. I’m sorry. But I’ll keep my eyes peeled. Let you know anything I find out.”

“Thanks, Dean. But I think you might need to make nice with your mom if we’re going to get anywhere fast.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ve tried. Do you know what she said to me when I haven’t seen her in years? She said, Dean, what are you doing here.”

Cassie’s eyes shuttered closed. “What? I thought you were the one that didn’t want to come back.”

“Is that what she’s telling everyone?” Dean shook his head. He had had his suspicions, just from things Adam had said, but really?

“Well--” Cassie shrugged, uncomfortable. “More like...implicating?”

“Fucking figures,” Dean hissed. “I cannot believe this is happening right now--please tell me this is not happening.”

“I’m sorry, Dean” Cassie said. 

“Yeah, I just--I really gotta go. Thanks, Cass. I really owe you one.”

“Damn right you do,” Cassie said. “Now you got a wedding to go to, I think. You think they’d let me come take photographs or do you think they got their own?”

“I don’t know--I’ll ask. There’s still time since it’s more like a--a bachelor party,” Dean said.

Cassie pursed her lips. “Oh."

“Yeah, I know. Duty calls, I guess.”

“Brave soldier,” Cassie said, patting him lightly on the arm. “Don’t forget to take care of yourself.”

He smiled at her, and then left. He missed the days when everything was black and white and simple. Logical. Monsters were bad, people were good. His second mom was the sheriff, and she was trustworthy and had his best interests at heart, the town’s best interests at heart, and--she didn’t tell lies.

 ~*~

“What do you mean the ferry isn’t operational?” Kevin asked. “I need to get to the mainland.” 

“I don’t know what to tell you,” the Operator said. “The motor busted. Gotta wait for it to be repaired.”

“But there’s gotta be a second boat.” Kevin ran his hands through his hair until it stood in spikes. “Right? Like a spare? Or something?”

The operator looked up at Kevin over his glasses, lips sucked into an unhappy curve. “The spare is the one with the busted up engine." 

“Then what happened to the main one?”

The operator shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just gone. Probably stole by some college punks. They like to come out here during the faze times for their fraternities or something.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “It’s the summer. They aren’t phazing anyone.”

“Or it’s highschoolers who’re bored. No matter. Got the sheriff on it.”

“No, no, no, no,” Kevin said. “That’s not good enough. Not remotely good enough. I need to be on the mainland, today.” He put his hands in pockets to hide the way they shook.

“And I need a better job. I don’t think either one of us are gonna get us anywhere that ain’t this island. Now run along. This magazine ain’t gonna read itself.”

Kevin shoved off from the counter. He really needed to get home. He thought he could do this, could really be there with Sam and Ruby on their happy day, but he couldn’t. It was too hard. There were still blood on the walls and it was like nobody saw it but him and it was just too much, too big, too--

He ran into someone, already apologizing until he saw who it was. “Dean?”

“Hey, you okay, buddy?” Dean said, hands on his shoulders. “You look terrible.”

“Probably because I feel terrible, Dean! I need to get off this island, and I can’t because the ferry is out of commission.”

“Well, they have a spare don’t they? I’m pretty sure they have more than one boat.”

“That’s the thing, Dean, one’s out of commission the other one’s gone and there’s a disturbing lack of care about it. Dammit--I told Channing I’d be on the plane tonight.”

“Are you saying,” Dean hissed, “that we are trapped on this island?”

“Well, I was going to go for stuck because trapped has a nasty ring to it. But I guess so.”

“Shit,” Dean said, “shit shit shit shit.”

Kevin looked at the way Dean was pacing. “Are you feeling that familiar rise of panic, because I am.”

“What did the boat operator say? Like exactly." 

“That he was getting the sheriff on it and--”

“The sheriff--right.”

Kevin frowned. “Isn’t she your mom?”

“We’re not on good terms right now I guess,” Dean said.

Kevin shuffled closer to Dean. “Who can we trust, Dean?”

“I don’t know--but Kevin--” and Dean put his hands on his shoulders -- “I promise you can trust me.”

Kevin blinked slowly. “Okay. I’m putting my life in your hands, Winchester, and don’t forget that Channing is gonna give you hell to pay if I’m not on that plane.”

“I’ll do my best I promise.” Dean’s eyes lit up, and he snapped his fingers, pointing at Kevin. “I know it! Mike has a boat. I’ll see if he’ll take you to the mainland.” 

“You’d do that for me?” Kevin said.

“Damn straight I will,” Dean said, “I promise. Just--sit tight, okay? I’ll get you home safe and sound.”

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it.”

“I know how it’s like to be here. Hell, I might get on that plane with you.”

“I’ll save you a seat.”  

~*~

Sam paced the grounds of the hotel, waiting for everyone to drag their sorry asses out of bed. He already had the fishing gear packed for the “surprise” bachelor party and it was just a matter of waiting for Dean and Kevin and Victor and Mike to show up, and those film people that Ruby had found, the ones who were getting payed to video tape every exquisite moment, and it was taking them forever.

And then finally he saw both Dean and Kevin coming up the walk, their arms slung around each other, and Sam hoped that that would be them at the end of the day, just walking like that, close, brothers again.

Want carved his belly hollow and he stared at Kevin and Dean, as Dean pushed Kevin off towards the hotel after whispering in his ear, as Dean looked at the ground, hands smoothing the wrinkles from his shirt, rubbing down his belly, and Sam swallowed, swallowed hard.

“Hey Dean,” he said, and Dean turned around, a faint flush on the high rises of cheek.

“Hey, Sam." 

Sam hitched a grin to his face. “Ready to go fishing? It’s gonna be the best bachelor party ever." 

“How do you know about that, dude?”

Sam shrugged, brushing shoulders with Dean as they walked in the general direction of the docks. “Well you know--people just love to fucking talk. Especially at weddings, especially with drink.

“I’m sorry that the surprise got ruined,” Dean said. 

“I’m not,” Sam said. “I hate surprises. I like being in control.”

Dean paused, face sliding away from Sam’s eyes, and that sucked because Sam thought that Dean’s eyes were prettiest green eyes he’d ever seen. “I gotta tell you something, Sam.”

Warmth flushed his skin. “Yeah, anything, Dean.”

“I can’t make the bachelor party,” Dean said. “I just. I just uh, found out some upsetting news about Mom and my family--and that, um, that whole John Winchester thing and like. I can’t go. I need to be alone and I would just bring down the mood too.”

“Oh,” Sam said. He played with the toe of his boot. “I get it.”

Relief flooded Dean’s face, and it was the second best thing, consolation prize, but sloppy seconds were better than nothing.“Kevin asked me to tell you that he’d probably not be making it too.”

Sam shrugged. “Yeah whatever. It’s just a bachelor party, it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Who’s boat are you using?” Dean asked.

“Mike’s, I think.”

“Kevin was trying to book a ferry ride to the mainland, but apparently both ferries are out of commission. You think we could borrow it? After you’re done?”

Sam’s heart went cold. “We?”

Dean’s gaze shuttered and he smiled, almost too automatically. “I thought I’d accompany Kevin. Someone would need to bring the boat back home. I’m still coming for the wedding. You know I wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ve missed you too much already.”

“Man, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” Sam said, “so just--just let me know, whatever I can do for you, just say the word.”

And Dean nodded, smiling gratefully, and he went back to his room to be alone, and Sam sighed because Mike was an okay guy and Victor was too but they didn’t know each other too well, they were Dean’s friends who were friends with Sam and it wouldn’t work without Dean--it would just be an awkward mess.

Sam made a note to bring more beer. The really good stuff. The kind that would get everybody so buzzed nobody would care that nobody knew anybody else as well as they knew Dean.

~*~

Ed spluttered awake to a faceful of cold water and ice slipping down the collar of his ragged tee. “Jesus fucking Christ goddamn it.”

He kicked wildly at the heavy lump on his bed and was rewarded with a hard smack on his knee. “So, Ed,” came Maggie’s super judgemental voice. “When are you gonna drop the farce of this ghost hunting trip and admit to Harry and Spruce that the only reason we’re here in the first place is because you were hired to film this damn wedding gig and you were afraid they wouldn’t come because it wasn’t cool enough?" 

“The John Winchester thing is real,” Ed said through his pillow, “as real as the fucking ice you dumped on my head.”

“Well, I hope you know where Spruce went with your camera,” Maggie said. “Because he never came back from the party last night.” 

“Probably just sleeping something off like I was before being so rudely awakened. I guess that’s the thing about sisters though, they never let you have a moment of peace even when they’re adopted.”

“Nice,” Maggie said, reaching for a pillow and thwapping him over the head. “Another dig about being adopted instead of a thank you for fucking saving your ass. You’re gonna be late for the bachelor party you nincompoop.”

“Yeah and according to you Spruce has the camera, and Spruce is missing, so.” 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing I brought the camera that I use to film my sweet roller derby babe moves,” Maggie said, thrusting it into his lap. “If you break it, you’re dead to me. and if you decide to haunt my ass, I’ll fucking film me busting your butt and submit it to hollywood and get rich off your ghost story.”

“Jeeze,” Ed said. “Why are you so mean?”

“Maybe it’s because I have a dick for a brother.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I have a nice cold one for that burn you just gave me.”

Maggie shrugged, and ran her fingers through her hair, tracing the star she’d tattooed on her scalp--or was it on the other side? Ed could never remember. “Shut up.”

~*~

The fishing trip, like Ed had suspected it would be, was terrible because who the fuck goes on the ocean for a goddamn bachelor party unless of course it was a fancy-schmancy cruise with lots of strippers, alcohol, and recreational drugs. Harry kept getting seasick, no fish were biting, and the beer ran out too quick and wasn’t it technically illegal to drink and drive a boat like it wasn’t a car but it was still a vehicle--wouldn’t it?

He blinked his eyes at the way the water and the way the alcohol bleared his vision.

God, he had never been so bored. But at least it paid good enough because god he needed the work even if it wasn’t ghost hunting. And if nobody watched the shit he was recording (well, kind of recording, he’d stopped when they’d brought out the blow-up doll because he figured that any ladies who might be watching this shit for nostalgic purposes wouldn’t be too happy, and yeah he completely blamed his sister for honing that sensibility in him) that was hardly his problem.

That was about when he saw a dark smudge on the horizon and, with a shaking finger, he said, “Hey is that a--a thing we should probably not crash into?”

Quick as breathing, Sam was beside him, his moose-bulk overshadowing him and pressing him uncomfortably against the railing. “Hey, you’re right. Looks like a boat that’s gone drifting. Let’s swing her about and check it out.”

“Or we could just go around it,” Harry said.

Victor joined them now too, shaking his head. “Nah, that wouldn’t be good because what if someone was on that boat, needing help. We should go over there, make sure we don’t need to call someone.” 

Sam clapped Victor on the shoulder. “And that’s why you’re the FBI agent. Making straight arrows of us all." 

Ed rolled his eyes as Harry continued to be desperately sick over the rail.

Their boat approached the one on the water, no longer on the horizon, and Ed flipped on the camera to record its approach, an unblinking third eye.

“I don’t think anyone’s on it,” Victor said. “They should have hailed us by now.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, “but how’d the boat get here if no one’s on it?”

Victor leaned out over the rail, biting his lip. “Well, as Hamlet said, that is the question.”

“I’m pretty sure the question was to be, or not to be,” Ed said, voice fuzzy.

“To be, or not to be that is the question,” Victor recited, “whether tis nobler to set a boat adrift or to let it wreck upon a shore of broken dreams." 

Sam looked at Victor over Ed’s head, his eyebrows frowning in sync with the way his lips pinched closed. “You’re drunk.”

“So are you,” Victor. “Who the hell is driving this thing?”

Sam pointed. “Heave ho, we’re pulling up.”

There certainly didn’t appear to be anybody in the boat, but the smell, the retching smell, was presence enough.

Harry began dry heaving over the boat again as Victor covered his mouth and Sam leaned forward, looking.  

“There’s a body,” Sam breathed.

“I’m going to be sick,” Ed sing-songed as he made sure to catch every filmable moment. He panned up the body, waiting till the last possible moment to film the face, for the big reveal--but there was nothing there to see, just his face blown away, nearly unrecognizable, the skull caved in from the force of the bullet and oh god he really was gonna be sick.

“Anybody we know?” Victor said.

“I can’t tell,” Sam said.

Ed pointed towards the aft of the boat. “Guys. There’s something there. A bag.” He scrambled over the side. 

“Hey,” Victory said, lunging after him but missing him. “You’re fucking up a crime scene.”

“And do you have any--” Ed said, bending over and opening the luggage with fumbling hands -- “jurisdiction here? In fact, are you actually even an FBI agent yet?” He lifted his head, his hands full of cash. “I didn’t think so.”

Stunned silence met him as he showed them the bag, full of bound hundred dollar bills, and a gun too. Problems were over. Solved. Poof. And he’d actually thought about turning down this job. Maybe the force was real, maybe his whole problem was not being a Jedi and listening to his instincts.

Well, thank the force.

“You guys? How we gonna split it--four ways? Man, there must be 50 grand in here.”

“We are calling the coast guard about this,” Victor said. “And we are going to preserve this boat and this money and that gun for evidence. Nobody is touching any of it--copy that?”

“But,” Ed said, “he’s obviously committed suicide. The money’s homeless--why can’t we just like, I don’t know, adopt it or something?”

Victor rolled his eyes. “You can’t adopt money, What’s-Your-Name. Who the fuck are you anyway?” 

“I’m the camera guy,” Ed said. “Who the hell are you, Victor?”

“I’m the guy well on his way to being an FBI agent. And I know the laws, and I know that if we don’t play this by the book, we’re all gonna be in huge trouble. And me, especially. I am not going to lose my career over a couple of greedy fucks.”

Ed took a reeling step back and almost fell over the edge money and all. “Whoa. Okay, big guy.”

“Now drop the bag, step away from it, and then sit your ass down on our boat,” Victor said. “Don’t make me talk to you like you’re six years old.”

“Fine!” Ed said, dropping the bag, along with his stomach and his hopes and his dreams because god he really needed that money like for real.

There had to be a way.

Then he remembered the empty camera bag slung over his shoulder--well technically it was Maggie’s camera case but who was keeping score. He looked up--Victor and Sam were clustered around the radio, trying to get it to work, and Harry was still puking up nothing over the boat and there was still a pool of scummy blood at his feet and a pile of money too.

“Ah shit,” he said, pretending to drop the camera as he squatted down and, with both hands, shoveled the money and the gun from the bag to his sister’s until it was empty and his sister’s was full. He hoped the few blood stains on the bills wouldn’t get all over his sister’s case or else he’d never ever hear the end of it. 

“Get the fuck out of the boat,” Victor said.

“Coming, coming, coming I don’t wanna trip over any dead bodies, jeeze.”

Victor turned to Sam and said, “Where did you get this guy?”

Sam shrugged. “Ruby got him. I don’t know, man.”

Ed mocked them in high pitched-chipmunk voices as he picked his way through the bloody deck of the boat, the money a present and constant and reassuring weight against his back.

“No one’s answering,” Victor said. “The radio’s busted.”

“We can tell the sheriff when we get back,” Sam said. “Let’s just take the coordinates, boat on back to the island, and tell Sheriff Mills and she’ll take care of it, then we can get back to the party.”

“Okay,” Victor said, clapping him on the shoulder. “And that’s a good plan because I don’t think I can take this smell much longer. God. Whoever did this was an asshole.”

“We’ll get him,” Sam promised. “We’ll get the bastard.”

Victor sighed as they pulled away from the bloody ship. “It’s weird, isn’t it? No murders for seven years and we find one on your honeymoon. I hope it’s not an omen.”

 “Don’t talk like that,” Sam said. “I don’t believe in omens. What our marriage is is whatever Ruby and I make of it. I’m nobody’s puppet on a string.”

“That’s a good perspective. I like it.”

Ed rolled his eyes and sat far away from them. When Harry joined him, pale and peaky and smelling really, really gross--he just said, “I wanna go home.”

“Soon,” Ed said, holding the bag to his chest. “Soon.”

 ~*~

Madison wrapped her legs around the tree branch, the bark rough against her thighs, chafing the skin there in a way that was almost pleasant and would be healed by tonight anyway.

Twigs cracked beneath her and Gordon’s voice said, “I sense a bad moon rising.”

She let her body swing down, knees holding onto the branch like they were monkey bars, like when she was a kid and when she was human. “Is that a snide comment about me and tonight? Full moon and all.”

Gordon turned slowly around, unfazed. Not a surprise. They had both known each other were present before laying eyes on each other or snapping warning twigs of approach. “Just an observation.”

He looked down at her and she blinked up at him. “This reminds me of something.”

“Spiderman probably.” Madison smiled. “You wanna kiss me? Because I’d totally kiss you back.” 

Gordon grunted, unimpressed, but his voice soft, as it always was. “I don’t think I’m quite there yet, Madison. I mean, this whole not hunting monster things for seven years was weird enough.”

“You still think I’m a monster?” Madison said. “That makes me so sad, Gordon. I feel we went from enemies to frenemies without a hitch but now we’re kind of stalling out on the bridge between frenemies to friends. It makes me sad.”

“Why does it make you sad?” Gordon said, still looking down at her.

“Because I think you’re a pretty cool guy--for a dude.”

Gordon laughed, and it sounded like water to Madison. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” 

“You should.” Madison swung upside down, her core flexing and relaxing to power the swing. She had to know every muscle, know how to control it, control her body, or else the whole thing would come out bloody. “What do I need to do to be friends? Because I think you and I both know that something bad is coming, and it’s better to face it as friends who have each other’s back instead of you know. You looking over your shoulder at me all the time.”

“So something’s bad coming?” Gordon said.

“If you want information, all you have to do is ask.”

Gordon bent a little lower at the waist so that he was closer to Madison. “Why did you say that?” 

“It really was just a feeling, Gordon. But so many people are coming together. So many threads, and it’s tying this knot that I don’t understand. I mean, even Charlie came back, and she ran from me--she ran from me when she found out what I was—who I was--and I didn’t think it was something I could get over, and then she was there and it was like she was pretending it didn’t happen. But it wasn’t just her who was back. Dean’s back too. Everyone is back, everyone who was there that time our whole world got turned upside down and I’m just--I’m just afraid that it’s going to happen again. I don’t know if it’s a wolf sense, feeling the storm before it approaches.” She smiled up at him again. “What about you? Last time I checked, trust was reciprocal, so as Charlie would say, tell me your feels, Master Jedi.”

“I don’t understand that reference,” Gordon said. 

“That’s too bad. I was hoping you could explain it to me because I don’t get it either and every time I ask Charlie just rolls her eyes and says that I really, really need to watch Star Wars.” 

Gordon broke his eyes from her, lifted them up to the sky deepening into twilight. “Shouldn’t you be getting along to your cage or something?” 

“News is out of date, Old Man1. That’s a Star Trek reference, fyi. I don’t use a cage anymore. Haven’t for a couple years now.”

Gordon went very tense. “Is that so?” 

Madison breathed deep, smelling the woods, the linen-fresh detergent that Gordon used, Gordon himself. “Are you afraid?” 

“Of course, I’m afraid. It’s like I’m little red riding hood stuck alone in the woods with the Big Bad Wolf." 

She smiled. “Well, at least you’re not the hunter, or else I guess I’d be dead.”

“I think that was a possible ending to the story.”

She reached out her hand towards him--and he took it. “Tell me what I can do, please, to earn your trust.”

“Well, I guess not eating me tonight would be a start.”

“But I haven’t eaten you for over two thousand nights. And I promise you that this night won’t be any different.” With her free hand, she crossed her heart. “And hope to die.”

“Right,” Gordon said, sounding hardly convinced, but he didn’t step away and he didn’t let go of her hand. His eyes went unfocused as he looked out towards the deepening gloom. “The Sheriff is hiding something. I don’t know what, but something’s not right. This deal she made, the one where monsters didn’t attack and the hunters didn’t hunt them down and the demons kept to their circle of hells. I didn’t think it’d work, but it did. And I should be happy about that but I’m worried because I don’t know who my enemies are. I don’t know who the demons are, I don’t know who the monsters are. I don’t know from whom I need to protect myself. And I don’t trust those people over there--those Dantes. I don’t trust how rich they are, and I don’t trust that nobody knows where they came from. Did you know that Cassie told me Luke Dante--if that’s his name--didn’t exist before the massacre?” He huffed a small cloud of laughter. “So don’t take it personally, Madison, but, uh, I don’t trust anybody.” 

“Huh,” Madison said. “I didn’t know that thing about Luke Dante. Definitely suspicious. See this is why we should be friends. We can mutually benefit each other.”

He looked down at her--then froze again, his hand tensing in hers as he noticed the curve of her claws, blunt broadsides pressed against his palm. Madison remained still, just swaying back and forth as Gordon took in the rest of her, the unnatural moonlit eyes that gleamed in the darkness even though there was no light, the fangs protruding from her mouth, the hair growing along her cheeks, her arms, her legs.

“Huh,” Gordon said. “Well, the way I figure it, I was the one who shared information the other didn’t know. You on the other hand--didn’t, so I’m not sure about the mutual part.”

“I think the key word--that you forgot to mention by the way--is yet. One day, I’ll know something that you’ll need, and I’ll give it freely either because we’re friends or because i still wanna be friends or because you’ll need it." 

“I usually do it alone, Madison.”

“Of the two of us,” Madison said, smiling against her fangs, “I think that I’m the lone wolf here. I don’t even have a pack.” 

“Well, that’s a relief,” Gordon said. “But that’s not what I meant. I don’t hunt with other people. I don’t play well with others.”

“I wouldn’t consider it as hunting, actually,” Madison said. “More like sharing. Sharing is cool.”

Gordon rolled his eyes. “Okay. Fine.” 

“Fine, what?”

“We’ll be friends. For now.” He let go of her hand and she let her arms hang down past her head, closing her eyes against the stretch in her pecs.

“Aren’t you tired of the all the blood rushing to your head,” Gordon said.

“I don’t want to make any sudden movements. I don’t want to scare you.”

Gordon bent down very close to her. “I once knew a man, a holy man, and I knew him in the biblical sense of the word. He showed me many rituals, one of which was the kiss of peace. It seems--” his words came soft and reluctant, but he spoke them--”rather relevant in the here and now.”

“I would agree,” Madison said.

Gordon cupped her face in his hands, long fingers rubbing against the grain of her hair in a way that pulled pleasantly, and she closed her eyes, her own fingers looping loosely around his wrist, as he pressed a single kiss to her forehead. 

She guided his hand to her lips, and kissed the back of it, carefully wrapping her mouth around her fangs so that he would feel nothing dangerous---just her kiss of peace, and nothing more.

“Peace, then,” Gordon said. “Don’t play Judas on me now, Madison.”

“I won’t,” Madison said. “Cross my heart.”

“That’s two promises you’ve sealed today,” Gordon said, slipping into the shadows. “I stopped making promises because they frequently turned out to be difficult for me to keep. I hope you know what you can and cannot do.”

“I think I can handle it.”

Gordon’s voice was faint, and she could only hear thanks to her wolf hearing. “I hope so.”

Then he was gone. Madison let go of the branch, blood rushing from her head, making her faint. But she recovered quickly and prowled the shadows, lurking ever closer to the Dante residence, sharp moon eyes fixed on the windows, the doors, the grounds, seeing everything there was to see.

~*~

Gordon tramped his way through the woods, feeling embarrassed, his hand still warm from where Madison had held it because apparently werewolves burned hotter than humans and vampires. It’d been a long time since he’d mentioned Kubrick because vampires had eventually gotten him too, just like they got every good person he’d ever known.

It’d been a long time since he told anybody they’d been more than friends, more than the occasional hunting partner.

He closed his eyes, missed Kubrick. Missed the way they’d pressed each other up against the walls of his trailers, the way he’d turn the pictures of his white Jesus over so that those pale blue eyes wouldn’t see nothing, the way they’d lie with each other on the bed, too tired or too hot because they lived in the deserts like exiles to make love, just holding hands and pressing soft kisses to their lips.

The way that Gordon would always leave, looking for the next hunt, and Kubrick would put his pictures of his god back up, staring hard at Gordon and Gordon could never stay for long under a gaze like that.

It was like he was a gunslinger and Kubrick an exiled priest and they never went steady, which is how Eliza had called the boys and girls she’d dated, and Gordon couldn’t imagine being a child because Dean had said it right, that one time they’d shared a drink and bed, hunters were never allowed to be children. 

It didn’t seem fair, but life wasn’t fair, and Gordon let the thought go.

He looked at his hands—they’d been red when he’d had to kill Kubrick after he’d been turned by vampires, and they were red again because Madison had been wearing red lipstick when she had kissed her knuckles.

He smeared the red prints of her lips until it was as if she had never been, had never touched him.

His skin prickled at the thought of aligning himself with monsters. They were always bad news. They took loved ones without thought, without care. Made him do things that kept him awake at nights to survive, even though he was only keeping a promise Kubrick and he had vowed to each other years ago.

He leaned against a tree, head bowed against the branches. Madison wasn’t a vampire though. She was a werewolf.

And they were mostly human, weren’t they?

He shook his head. Ran over the bible verses from the Song of Solomon that Kubrick had licked into his skin, the only ones he remembered, the only ones he cared about. 

He sang them under his breath until he came to Missouri’s and Pamela’s, and knocked on their door. He started a little when Tamara was the one who answered it, but her mouth curved into a smile when she saw him, and he smiled back.

“I came to pay my respects,” Gordon said. “I heard about your husband.”

When would they stop burying their own?

She nodded. “Thanks. He talked about coming again, seeing you. Drinking and remembering the old days when there was more good in them and less fear.”

Victor nodded.

“Let’s talk business,” Tamara said. “Isaac’s spirit warned me that there was trouble coming to the island, and I think it’s Azazel judging from what he’s said. You heard anything?”

Gordon paused before answering. He knew Tamara was a hunter, and that she would have given Isaac a hunter’s death. And he knew that Missouri was someone who could reach beyond the veil. They weren’t dealing with an angry spirit that was trying to trick Tamara, drag her down below the earth to him.

And then, as they sat together on the porch, smelling the mint crushed beneath their boots, he told her everything he knew.

~*~

Meg knocked on Ruby’s door as she pushed it in. “So hey, don’t kill me but--whoah.” She froze as she took in the sight of Ruby in her white, red-rose edged wedding dress, in her killer heels and her red polish. “I just kinda want to eat you up right now.”

Ruby bit her lip, pressed her breasts together to emphasize her cleavage, shaking like she wanted to dance. “You think Sam’ll like.”

“The way he’s always over you--I’m pretty sure Sam’ll love.”

“Good,” Ruby said, happy-self-satisfied smile as winked at herself in the mirror. “I look great.” She traced the outline of one of the roses and said, “I’m sorry. You kind of interrupted yourself.”

“Got you your real wedding present, and I want to give it to you now and give the crowdpleaser one at your real, actual wedding. Pretend to be surprised--but it’s going to be one of those keurig coffee maker things that are like all the rage. Pretend you like it, then snipe about it behind my back.” 

Ruby’s smiled broadly, confidently, like she knew she’d love it because it was Meg who had given it to her. “You had me when you told me that I was getting my present early. What is it?”

“Okay,” Meg said. “When you see it--you’re gonna love it. And when you love it, you’re gonna wanna kiss me--which I highly encourage you do.”

“Well, now that you’ve built it up so much my expectations are higher beyond sky high.”

“I promise you won’t be disappointed. Okay, now close your eyes.”

Ruby did, and Meg smirked as she pulled a sheath from the small of her back. “Now open your hands.” And she laid the knife in Ruby’s waiting palms. “And open your eyes.” 

“A weapon!” Ruby said, before fixing Meg with a stare. “I have tons of weapons.”

Meg scooched closer. “Not just any weapon.” She bit her lip. “C’mon stop screwing around and fucking draw the blade. Take a good look at it.”

Ruby gave her an indulging glance, but did as she was told. Her eyes widened as she gazed upon the full extent of the blade. “No,” she whispered.

“Yes.” 

“But Abaddon’s blade was shattered after she got stuck in time.”

“I saved the shards though, and reforged them into something new.”

“But won’t Abaddon kill me if she ever saw this though?”

Meg scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. “Like I care what Abaddon thinks rotting in her devil-trapped jail cell right now. Actually--I did ask if she wanted them. Do you know what she told me? She said she didn’t need a sword anymore, that she’d eat her enemy’s hearts raw after she raked their internal organs from their bodies with her bare hands.” 

Ruby rolled her eyes. “I don’t even know why I expected anything different.” But then she cupped Meg’s face in her hands, kissed her slow on the mouth, slipping more and more of her tongue between her lips with each press until they gasped for breath.

“Told ya,” Meg panted. “I need to be honest though--and I know, that’s like asking a lot of me as a demon, but I think the blade is weaker now.”

“Well, that’s to be expected. It’s a broken sword. But even broken things can still wound.” She looked at Meg, her eyes hard and soft at the same time. “You and I know that best of all, I think.” 

“Yeah well,” Meg said, “it doesn’t kill everything like it used to. Like angels for instance.”

Ruby grimaced. “Oh that’s unfortunate.”

Meg’s face fell. “That’s what I said. Only a lot more violently.”

“But why?” Ruby said. “Why now?”

Meg’s smile slid a little broader as she crept closer to Ruby until she was almost sitting in her lap. “Haven’t you heard that there’s something hunting demons?” She tapped her finger to her lips. “Our secret.”

“But what about you?” Ruby said.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about little old me,” Meg said. “I’m about to discover where Cas has hidden his angel blade any day now.”

Ruby’s face fell. “You’ve been saying that for years.” 

“Well, it looks like he keeps it in his coat, but there’s like a space-time pocket or something that angels have access to but demons don’t because we’re like corrupt, twisted humans or something and beyond the mortal realm or some blah-blah-blah.” She shook her head, brown curls falling against her shoulders. “You know how he can get, thinks his club’s the best club even though they technically threw him to the dogs--” she flashed a sarcastic smile -- “meaning us, me specifically, of course.” She bared her lips into a snarl. “But I’m glad you like your wedding present. I told you you would.”

“I never should have doubted you,” Ruby said.

Their eyes met. “You know it.” Meg glanced at her wrist watch. “Oop, I gotta go. Cas needs to preen for someone what else is new.” 

Ruby’s mouth fell open, then she laughed. “Have you ever told him that he’s like the most insecure angel you’ve ever met?”

“You have absolutely no idea,” Meg said. “But duty calls.”

“Thank you,” Ruby said to the closing door.

~*~

Jody stared at the corpse, at the mangled face, and then at the id plastic-bagged in her hands. It was Garth. Human. A hunter. Former deputy, burn scar on his face for all his trouble, and he was dead.

The dissonance sheered the skin from that place where she thought her heart might be. Relief that it wasn’t hunters targeting demons, jeopardizing everything she’d sacrificed so much to save, anger that someone had fucking killed Garth, someone under her protection, and that they had dumped his body in a goddamn boat to rot on the ocean, fodder for the gulls.

“When will the autopsy be done?” she said.

“In the morning, Sheriff.” Tessa turned her eyes downward, sighed. “Seven years on this island with no deaths, and now two in two days. It’s a Shakespearian tragedy. What’s happening, Sheriff?”

“I don’t know,” Jody said. “But I intend to find out. Have those reports for me first thing in the morning.”

She left without waiting to hear Tessa’s confirmation. She slammed the door shut in her jeep, flipped the lights on and the sirens too, and sat in the driver’s seat, trying to smooth the fear from her face, the grief too. 

Tires spinning and screeching, she headed out for the hotel, where the Dantes were, where the Dantes always were. She kept the lights on even as she skidded into the parking lot, even after she exited the vehicle, blue and red strobing the front door as she opened it and found all the party people, laughing and drinking, and she pushed through them until she found the bride, clustered with those that passed for her friends. “You and me,” she said, “we need to talk. Now.”

“Gonna put me in handcuffs, Sheriff? ‘Cause Sam would probably really like that.” 

“Remains to be seen,” Jody said. “But I’m not here for a laugh and some uncomfortable sexual innuendos.” 

Ruby leaned in close as she whispered, “Why so serious?”

“Enough.” Jody lead them outside, and then leaned against the pillars supporting the porch.

“You know, Jody--is it okay that I call you Jody?--but this week is kind of my special week so.” 

“Garth is dead,” Jody said. “One of my own.”

Ruby’s smile vanished. “How. And who?”

“Shot at point blank range, so the funeral will be closed casket only,” Jody said. “We’re still waiting on the who.”

“If a demon did it,” Ruby said, “we’ll take care of it.”

Jody huffed laughter, kicked at the veranda with her boot. “With a slap on the wrist? Time-out in hell?” 

Ruby’s face blanched. “Time-out in hell is no fucking picnic. I’ve been there, I think I know.”

“You know what else is not a picnic?” Jody said. “The body at the coroner’s office. Garth. But someone sure as hell laid him out as one for the scavengers.”

“You’re really not going to let this go are you?” Ruby rolled her eyes. “I hope that a human did it. You know that John Winchester was a murderer waiting to happen even before Azazel laid his yellow eyes on him. It’s not just us demons who are bad you know.”

Jody raised her hand. “Don’t even speak about humans when you’re not one.”

Ruby stepped forward, her mouth doing a strange thing where it tried to smile but also not. “But I used to be.”

“I don’t care--you’re not one now. Just keep your rabid horde of demons in check. The truce is still alive, and I refuse to let you ruin it.”

Ruby mock saluted. “Message received, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jody said as she went back to her police jeep, “and just do your part. I need to talk to the witnesses. Sam and Victor around?”

“They’re inside,” Ruby said. “I’m sure you can find your way.”

Jody found Victor easily enough. She asked him her questions, and he answered them, and the question mark still lingered.

Until-- “What about the money?” Victor said. “Any leads on that?”

Jody frowned. “What money?”

“There was like--a huge suitcase full of money. Like maybe 50 grand worth. There’s gotta be a lead in that. That kind of money just doesn’t appear and disappear without a trace.”

“There wasn’t any money in the boat after the coast guard went to your coordinates, Victor.” Jody plucked out her spiral notebook, flipped the pages. “Nope. Nothing." 

“I saw it,” Victor said, “we all saw it. Sam can confirm.” Then he snorted. “That fucking punk. I bet he took it, managed to sneak it it on board.”

Jody’s eyes snapped from her notes to Victor. “Who?” 

“I can’t remember his name, but it’s the person Ruby brought on to film the wedding for posterity.”

Jody shook her head, and pressing with her palms flat against the table, rose from her seat. “I’m going to talk to Sam, and see if he can’t point me in the direction of this camera man.”

Sam corroborated the story, including the part about the money. And he was able to provide a name too. Ed Zeddmore. Apparently, his sister was here too but she had no idea where he’d, saying only that he’d gone out like the loser he was. She told her to tell him to come down to the station tomorrow and Maggie said she would, so she guessed that that was that--at least for now.

She passed Ruby again on the way out, who was still standing on the veranda, and for once, she didn’t say anything smart. But when Jody turned the engine on, and when the headlights flooded the gloom, Ruby was still there, standing, watching, one arm crossed over her belly, while the elbow of her other arm dug into her flesh, fingers picking at her lips or was it her teeth, Jody didn’t know, but she wasn’t smiling, she wasn’t laughing, there was nothing there but her black eyes watching Jody pull away.

~*~

The reason that Jody had been unable to find Ed was because Ed had, to put it simply, bailed. Bailed with Harry and the money. Harry was still sick from the boat so he was essentially useless, but he still managed to be a pain in the ass about doing as he was told.

“Wait--why are we burying this bag in the forest?”

“Because I’m asking you to, Harry, okay?” Ed had pleaded. “You trust me right? Then trust me when I tell you that this bag is the key, okay, it’s the tree of fucking life, so I need you to bury it for me until I can come back for it.” He patted Harry’s cheeks with both palms. “I promise, okay? Everything’s going to be okay.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “It’s that cop isn’t it? Ed, are you on the run from the cops?"

“What?” Ed said. “Of course not. God, why would you even think that?”

“Because of the boat? The dead body?” Harry’s eyes widened, his face an exaggerated pose of oh, duh. “Any of this ringing a bell?”

“Oh yeah,” Ed said, “you’re right.” He patted Harry on the shoulder, pushing him towards the direction of the forest. “So why don’t you do your old buddy Ed a favor and bury this bag while I go take care of that. She probably just wants to get my statement or something.”

“Whatever, just--” Harry pushed Ed away. “You’re making my headache worse, you big pang in the ass.”

“Yeah, whatever yourself, you’ll thank me later.” Ed watched Harry’s staggering departing figure to make sure that he actually did go into the woods as he was told, then went in the front door after running his fingers through his hair and wiping his wrist over his mouth.

But by the time Ed finally forced his dragging feet to the hotel, the sheriff was gone, which was just as well, because now that he thought about it, asking Harry to bury the money was a spectacularly bad idea.

Of course, Harry would manage to find some way to fuck it up because he wasn’t a leader, like he was. And if he wanted to make sure that Harry wouldn’t get tangled up in this more than they already were, and if he wanted to make sure that Harry didn’t look in the bag and find the money then--

Well, he’d just have to do it himself.

~*~

Harry, who had not yet managed to keep anything down since the boat, found himself weak and wobbly-kneed under the weight of the bag. Why couldn’t Ed take care of his own shit?

In fact, what the heck was in this bag that was so important. 

And, in the middle of the forest, Harry dropped to his knees, bag slipping off his shoulder, the ache blooming into pain without the weight of it numbing it into something dull and throbbing and persistent.

He pulled the zipper down, saw the money and the gun, and felt like he needed to throw up all over again, and god, he was so sick of that.

But then he shook his head because hadn’t Victor, the almost fbi agent, told Ed to leave the bag in no uncertain terms?

What if this was blood money? Well it was, actually, because there was blood on it. What if whoever wanted this money, killed for this money, was going to come back for it? What if whoever put red on these benjamins was in the woods right now, hunting him like he had hunted his first (or, worse, his previous?) victims? 

Oh, there was no way that Ed was going to get away with this. After this shit was done, they were all going to have a talk about this and how this wasn’t friend approved behavior. Yeah, he might be having Ed’s back by burying this money and taking the fall but how on earth was Ed having Harry’s back in all of this.

Oh that’s right. He wasn’t. 

He swallowed past the dry lump in his throat, hands shaking as he rubbed them over the thighs of his blue denim jeans over and over, but they were still wet, and sick, and shaking.

Something snapped in the woods, and Harry’s head jerked up, looking wildly from one dark shadow to another dark shadow pooling between the trees. His breath hitched, and a cold sweat ran down his spine, soaking his buffy t-shirt and the band of his tighty-whities.

He opened his mouth to call out, hey who’s there, but then instantly shut it again because he’d seen horror movies, never call out in the dark, never let them know where you are.

So instead, he reached for the gun. It was heavier than he expected it to be. Hands shaking, he double-gripped it, just like all the cool heroes did in the movies, and swung it this way and that, unsure of where the threat would come first as the snap and crackle of twigs grew more intense with each passing moment.

Somebody shouted a word, and it came from behind, and before Harry quite knew what he was doing, he had pulled the gun around.

But it was just Ed, hands raised in surrender, in a hey don’t kill me sorry for stabbing you in the back kind of way, and the gun lowered.

“What the fuck, Ed,” Harry shouted, “Why the hell did you scare me like that?”

~*~ 

Ed was just relieved that Harry’s slow poke ass hadn’t managed to bury the bag yet. But then he saw the gun, and the open bag, and he knew that he was screwed, that he was really screwed because Harry could never just leave well enough alone? 

“Oh man, Harry. Why’d you have to look in the bag?” 

“Why’d you have to take it?” Harry gesticulated fervently with his gun hand. “I thought everyone agreed not to take it.”

Ed pointed with his finger at himself. “I didn’t! We need this money. I’m tired of being poor.”

Harry shook his head. “I don’t--I can’t. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about us. About the team.” 

Harry shook his head, gesticulating again with the hand that held the gun, god hadn’t he watched any of the movies? Hadn’t he learned the first thing about gun safety? 

“Okay,” Ed said. “Okay. I get that you want to talk about this. But can you put the gun down first?”

Harry glanced down at the gun in his hand, almost startled to see that he was still carrying. “Do you know who could be out there? People who could be looking for that money?”

“Yeah, but we can talk about that after you put the gun down, okay?”

Harry nodded, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “Right--okay--”

Something snapped in the woods, a gunshot rang out, stunning Ed, his ears ringing and ringing as the shot echoed in his mind, then the sudden realization that it was a gun, and that guns had bullets, and that bullets could shoot people. “Oh my god, I’m shot!” he patted himself down, waiting for the pain because didn’t shock delay it and yeah he was definitely in shock and for the blood and then the realization that he was okay wow he was okay. “I’m okay,” he half-laughed. “I’m okay!” Ed Zeddmore, surviving a brush with death.

And Harry was laughing weakly too, gun already dropped, it must have gone off accidentally--

“I told you everything was gonna be okay--” Ed said. But then he saw something on Harry’s leg, something dark and damp and spreading, something red, something that was-- “Harry, you’re not okay--you’re bleeding, you’re--" 

Harry looked down at himself, at his leg, at his thigh. “But I don’t--I don’t feel any pain. Aren’t they supposed to hurt?”

“But, the shock--” Ed lurched towards Harry, just as Harry slumped over backwards, blood gushing in red fountains from his thigh even as Ed was pulling the belt from his loops to use as a tourniquet.

He tried to put his palm over the wound, but it just--it didn’t work.

“It’s going to be okay,” he babbled as he looked at the blood on the green grass, on his hands, on his--all over his friend and--

“Ed,” Harry gasped. “Ed, what’s happening?”

“It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be--”

Harry’s head hung unnaturally. He wasn’t breathing. His eyes were open but Harry wasn’t there. 

Blood still pumped from the hole in his leg, getting slower and slower until it was just a wet pool staining the ground and himself. 

“Harry!” he grasped his shoulders, shaking him hard like he was waking himself up from a hungover sleep. “Harry, wake up! C’mon, Harry, listen to me--don’t go towards the light!” He slapped him across the cheek, leaving a red print across his pallid cheek.

He didn’t even twitch.

“Harry?” he asked.

He pulled away then, cradling his head between his knees, body shaking.

He had to get rid of it. Harry deserved more than just, than just being left to be scavenged by wolves.

He picked up the shovel that Harry had dropped before he had picked up the gun. He dug a hole deep as he could. He hoped it was six feet, but he didn’t know. It took him a long time. A really long time. Dawn was just beginning to break by the time he he was pushing the last of the dirt over Harry’s gaping face. 

There was nothing more to do. Couldn’t risk a grave marker. “Why the fuck did you have to open the bag, Harry? Huh?" 

He slung the bag over his shoulder, pushed his way back toward the hotel, exhaustion heavy in his bones, like cement in his morrow, the gun still ringing in his head.

Blood and dirt caked his palms, he noticed, as he scrambled up the side of the building, like he was visiting some lover in the dark, because he didn’t want to risk the lobby, couldn’t risk the lobby.

In the shower, the water swirled brown and red at his feet, as he stayed there long after it had turned cold and goose bumps dimpled his flesh. 

~*~

While Ed was busy burying his best friend, Ruby, Meg, Bela, Sarah, and Charlie were busy enjoying the bachelorette party, which had turned into an infamously better time than the bachelor party had--possibly because none of the ladies presence found a dead body.

Everyone had fun. They drank. They kissed each other on the lips, the mouth, their cheeks, their hands.

And when Ruby pulled away, swaying with drink, running high on the emotions inside her, Abaddon’s knife girt to the small of her back, she knew that this was happiness. 

Of course, it wasn’t hard to be happy here, on earth, instead of in hell. 

Hell--was awful. Hell was, well, hell.

Her breath spasmed, and she tore at her skin with her nails. She felt dirty, unclean. she had been told that so many times, that sometimes it was hard to remember that it wasn’t true because it always felt true, no matter how hard she tried to prove otherwise, how many sacrifices she made, how many causes and people she was willing to die for--her father, her mother, her lover, her husband.

Everything she did, she did for them. Because she believed in them. Believed in what they held to be true because they believed it.

With every part of her soul that still burned in her, she believed in them.

She slipped out of the hotel into the back where the outdoor pool was, and then she slipped out of her clothes--out of the sheer, white blouse edged with mother of pearl. Out of the asymmetrical black silk skirt that hugged her thighs and slipped across her skin. Kicked off her six inch heels, stripped off her lacy stockings. 

Standing there, in her pale pink cotton briefs and her pale pink lacy bra, she balanced at the edge of the pool, her bare toes with their chipped, cola-red polish clutching the stone rim, her hands raised, breathing in breath after deep breath as she prepared to dive.

And then she did jump, her body a long line arcing like an algebraic curve, before touching down in the cerulean chlorine moonlit pool, feet ballet-pointe, champaign-bubble surf pluming in her wake, splashing the cement.

 It took a moment, just a moment, before the pain seared her skin, her eyes. When she opened her mouth to scream, it burned her tongue, scorched her throat, and inflamed her lungs. She thrashed, and the bubbles churned as the smoke rose a grey veil along the water.

Could demons die from too much holy water? Ruby didn’t know--maybe, just maybe, she was about to find out.

What was baptism supposed to do? Cleanse and purify? 

But what would she be if every unclean thing were washed away, when she was a demon, and their unclean, tortured, torturing souls were strung together with the bloody barb wire that hung the hollow husks of murdered souls-- 

In the rush and roar of the water, beyond the shrieking, agonizing wails of her screams as she choked on them and water too, Ruby heard the voice of her sister--does that make me a bad person--, of Meg, even though that wasn’t her name because she had forgotten her name, Alastair had carved from her, chewing it up raw and spitting something else back up, and she had no memory of it.

She screamed for her sister now, the name none of them knew, not now, not anymore.

She cried for Sam.

She prayed for her father.

She was disappearing in the steam as the holy water sacrificed her on its own altar to god. 

Strong arms grasped her around the middle, fingers scrabbling at her abdomen, her belly button, heaving her up and over onto the surrounding platform of cement.

It was cold, and it dug into her skin, her ribs.

It hurt and it didn’t hurt. 

Cas’s dripping face loomed over her, the weight of the water pulling his hair limp and dank against his skull. He pulled his drab trenchcoat from where he must have shucked it off and began to dry the droplets of holy water that still smoldered on her skin.

She gasped for air.

“Who did this?” he said, voice detached and clinical as he patted her dry.

Boots thumped against the grey concrete, and Sam’s voice came from a long way away, like she was still under-water.  “Get away from her! Get the fuck away from her.”

Castiel stepped back, but head jutted forward, and his eyes narrowed to slits. “Are you accusing me, boy?”

Sam’s big hands cradled her head in his lap. She nuzzled his faded blue jeans, no longer crisp and clean from detergent, smelling of the road, of the forest, of him. Her hands clutched and kneaded at the meat of his thigh.

“Maybe I am,” Sam said right back at Cas.

Ruby rolled her eyes, searching in the shadows, beyond reach of the pale moonlight. A red star rose then, shining and red, brighter than the sun, like phoenix feathers rising from their sleep of ash. “Anael?” she rasped. “Anael, is that you?”

Cas’s face whipped around, and beneath her cheek, Sam’s thighs stiffened, as if he was poising himself to leap, to spring.

“No,” came a thin, human voice from the red star, “It’s just me. Just Anna.”

“I thought I told you to leave,” Sam said. 

Anna was close enough now to be human, to be a girl with red hair. “Yeah, but I was invited.”

“By who?”

Anna folded her hands around Ruby’s. “By Ruby. You might remember her as her bride?” She smiled, but her teeth still bit down on her lower lip.

There was a pause--tense and uncomfortable. “Why?”

“We’re friends,” Anna said. “Isn’t that reason enough?” She rose to her feet, began to pace around the perimeter of the pool, eyes searching the still waters.

“Then why were you skulking around with Cas?” Sam said. “Why are you really here?”

Castiel surged forward, then stopped, as if he remembered they were awkwardly on the same side. “We’re here to save you. You should show us some respect."

Sam laughed, loud and long. 

Ruby pushed herself from Sam’s lap, her wet hair stinging and smoking. “Can we stop please. Sam, I did invite Anna over because we have business to discuss.”

“What kind of business?” Sam said, eyes darting to the three of them.

Ruby cradled her aching head in her palms. “Casey business.”

“You think an angel did it,” Cas said. “And you thought to talk to an outsider instead of to me.”

Ruby staggered to her feet. “Boo-hoo, Cas. Maybe I just thought that Anna would be better company than your posturing face.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Cas demanded.

“Guys?” Anna’s voice rang out, and they turned in sync towards her. She was kneeling beside the pool, right there at the very edge, her light jeans patched with dark damp spots as her hand reached out into the pool. 

When she took it back out again, a crucifix affixed to a beaded rosary was draped around her wrist, water sparkling from its wooden beads like stars. “Anybody know whose this is?”

“The only person who knows we’re demons is the Sheriff,” Ruby said. “And I know it wasn’t her because she was over here investigating another death. And she wouldn’t risk the truce, especially since it’s already in jeopardy.

“And Dean is back in town,” Sam added. 

“So it’s somebody who doesn’t know you’re demons but has their suspicions,” Cas said. “A hunter did this.”

“We will do nothing about this,” Ruby said. “I was not killed. I will speak to Sheriff Mills about keeping her hunters in order and in line. I will handle this, and not one of you will bring this to Lucifer or to Lilith. Somebody drain the goddamn pool and get a person to clean it up in the morning. Close it for guests. Anna, we still have much to discuss.” 

But apparently Anna wanted to form a united front with Castiel because she stood by him, her arms folded across her chest. “Angels aren’t doing this,” she said. “We are patient, and we have waited a long time.” 

Cas looked down at her, something cold and hard in his eyes. “We?”

Something shuttered closed in Anna’s face, a distance spread, suffusing her skin like hurt and death. “They--would not jeopardize their chance to bring about the apocalypse with no muss and no fuss--and no petty interference from hunters who want to save the world from bloodshed.”

Ruby and Anna stared at each other a long time.

“This isn’t about causes,” Ruby said slowly, blinking against the water that still burned her eyes. 

Anna finished for her. “It’s personal.”

“Then you’d better hand me that crucifix,” Ruby said, reaching out for it. Anna only hesitated for a moment, but dropped it into her palm. Drops of holy water stung her skin, but she didn’t flinch.

If this was personal, then this was a personal item, and witches did love collecting personal items to target their spells.

Whoever had done this had made a huge mistake. 

~*~

Jody stood for a long time at the closed door, fist raised to knock or fight it was hard to tell anymore sometimes.

She chose to go with a gentle rap with her knuckles. 

Pamela opened the door, blind Pamela with her empty sockets since she wasn’t wearing her white seer eyes nor her sunglasses. “What brings you here, Jody?”

“How did you know it was me?”

Pamela laughed, flashing her 1920s starlet smile. “John Winchester took my eyes, not my psychic sense.”

Missouri appeared behind her, cup of steaming jasmine tea in her hands. “We got company?” 

“Hell yes, we do.” Pamela opened the door wider. “What can we do ya for, Sheriff?”

“I need answers.” 

Pamela and Missouri exchanged a knowing glance, their smiles slipping. “That’s what you said last time and look where it got you.” Missouri’s voice was soft.

“My actions got me to where I am today,” Jody said. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

Missouri sat down on a hard kitchen chair, a distinctly unhappy look on her face. “Very well, then.” Pamela stood behind her, her narrow, ring-decked hands massaging her shoulders, smoothing them of the knots that must have been nestled there, right alongside her shoulder bones.

It must be hard knowing the things they knew. 

“I need to know if someone is breaking the truce,” Jody said. “And I need to know who it is.”

“It’s not about the truce,” Missouri said. “This is about old hurt. I feel a lot of pain.” Pamela cradled her cheek and kissed her there.

“That doesn’t give someone a right to murder folks,” Jody said.

“Are we going to cry about a demon?” Pamela said. “They’re actually wearing people. And you allowed that.”

Jody stood, a nervous tic in her hands. “I did not. Their hosts were empty of consciousness--that was part of the bargain--and they’ve been bound to keep them until the final game is up.” She turned back. “What kind of sheriff do you think I am?”

“One who makes mistakes,” Missouri said.

Pamela was a little more forgiving, but only just. “We all do that.”

“You overstepped your jurisdiction,” Missouri said. “I understand why you did because I love that boy too, but you did not have the right to make the deal, to speak for us all.”

“I didn’t come here for answers I already knew,” Jody said. “Do you know who killed Casey and Garth?”

Pamela raised her empty sockets towards the sound of Jody’s voice. “It would help if we knew who else was dead.”

“What do you mean who else is dead?” Jody’s heart stilled.

“There is death on this island,” Missouri said, “but everything is very clouded. I think a spell has been cast that clouds our vision. Who else has died? 

Jody bit her lips, her voice a thin thread of desperation. “I only know about those two.”

“We will attempt to help you find the others, as well as the one responsible.”

“Thank you,” Jody said as she went out the door. But she lingered in the entry way, hand resting on the brass knob. “You don’t think--it could be Azazel again?”

“Why would he return?” Missouri said. “According to you, he got what he wanted.”

“Our sight is blind to that too,” Pamela said. “You see what I did there? It’s a pun. But you need to ‘fess up eventually, Sheriff”

“One day,” Jody said, “I will.”

~*~ 

Dean stretched out on the bed, wishing this was a shitty enough joint to have the magic fingers, but it wasn’t and he didn’t have it even though he wanted it. Someone knocked on the door, and then again until he finally forced himself to get up and open it.

Cas was there. Clothes damp, hair damp. Tie dripping. “You’re attractive,” he said.

Dean’s skin prickled. “Thanks, I guess.”

“I’ve always liked looking at you, Dean.”

“What do you want, man?”

“To have sex with you.” 

Dean laughed because it was safer to laugh than to do something else, than to feel something else. “Are you drunk?”

“No." 

“Aren’t you married?” Dean went on, a little desperately.

“She won’t mind,” Cas said, his voice distant. “And it doesn’t matter. Our lives are flashes of fire that disappear in smoke. Let’s ring a few gongs and go out with a bang.”

“I can’t,” Dean said. “I can’t do it that way. Goodbye, Cas.”

“Why? Is it because you and my sister--” he gestured behind his shoulder, then lowered his voice. “She’s not actually my sister, you know? It’s just a word, really. And she’s here too, if you want me to ask her to join us. Anna might say yes. She’s still very fond of your.”

Dean shook his head. “That’s really not what I meant. But I did say goodbye, and I meant it.” He closed the door on Cas’s expectant face. After a few minutes, the sound of sodden footprints wended their way down the hall. 

Dean, hands shaking, braced himself against the door before sliding down its smooth, polished wood, until he was crumpled on the floor, head hanging between his knees, breathing slow and deep, and he waited for the tremors to stop, to stop and go away, before sliding between his clean sheets and sleeping the sleep only he and dead eye dick could dream about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Star Trek Deep Space 9 wherein Sisko would call Dax “old man” as a term of endearment.


	6. Shirt

Ruby surveyed the hotel, at the veils festooning the bannisters, the lacy curtains edged in red to match the beauty marks on her wedding dress, at the hustle and bustle as people prepared for the largest, grandest wedding this island had ever known.

She looked down at her little leather pocket book, scribbled with notes that still needed to be done. The Reverend still hadn’t returned her confirmation call about the rehearsal dinner tonight, which was odd.

The private irony of wedding demons in a church was not lost on either of them, and the Father had always been very prompt to answer her calls and do his religious duty. But then there was Casey too, and the matter of her death.

She laughed. Was she going to think that every disappearance now was an indication that someone had died on the island? There had been no death on the island for years now. Even considering that, what home could say that there had been only two deaths in seven years--or even three for that matter.

But something itched under her skin as she called him again and it went straight to voicemail.

“You okay, babe?” Sam said, sliding his strong arms around her belly, kissing her neck, tongue making wide circles around the sensitive skin there. 

The itch turned into a thrill as she leaned against him, holding still, barely even breathing. “Yeah, it’s just--”

“All that wedding preparation?”

“Yeah.”

“Uh oh,” Sam said, his breath hot against her ear. “Your Dad’s coming ‘round. Too much PDA?” 

Luke Dante strolled towards them, hands behind his back. “I think perhaps my daughter needs a break. Sam, do you think you could take over the preparations, just for the morning?” He held his hand out to Ruby with a smile. “What about a bike ride in the woods, just like the old days?”

They exchanged a glance before Sam nodded. “Sure thing. Pretty sure I can do almost as good a job as Ruby can.”

She punched him lightly in the arm. “You keep on deluding yourself.”

But her belly had gone a little colder, goosebumps creeping up on her skin even though it wasn’t all that cold--there was even a hint of sun peering through the grey clouds. 

The deepest portions of hell, the one that had first held Lucifer, now masquerading as Luke Dante, debonair millionair, were the ones that were coldest. First, there were the upper levels, the ones that burned your human skin away, your bones too, and left nothing but the bright light of a soul.

Burn away the chaff--so that only the thing of value remained.

Then there were the slaughter pits, the torture pits, where they kept the racks, where Alastair roamed and prowled, panther slick, turning you inside out and outside in, against yourself and your fellow tortured souls.

There was no way out.

No escape.

Even picking up a razor wasn’t an escape even though it looked like one.

She knew that now, could see it now, like something hazy just beginning to focus. Sometimes she lost sight of it, but other times it was right there, crisp and clear, like high definition picture.

But--beyond that--beyond the pits--was Lucifer’s cage. 

And it burned cold.

Cold with fear. Cold with rage. Cold with despair. Cold with betrayal. Cold with revenge. Cold with loneliness.

Even now, as Lucifer put his hand on Ruby’s shoulder, there was the chill, so deep-set that not even seven years above ground had thawed it. His breath came out in a cloud of frost, voice sheer and thin as icicles, shattering the silence in the empty spaces between your heart and mind. 

Ruby waited for his every word. 

But they went to their bikes in silence, and they rode in silence too until they were deep under the green canopy of the forest. 

“How is Sam?” Lucifer finally said. 

“He’s good,” Ruby said back. “He’ll be ready.”

“Does he suspect?””

Ruby shook her head. “I know that he knows that he’s special. He spent the winters in hell, alive. Without torture. How many souls can say that? He takes great pride in it. He thinks it means something.”

“It only means that I want my vessel to be clean, pure. And only you can do that. Only you can make him as strong as he’ll need to be.” 

“But he thinks it means that he’s the king, or soon will be.” She smiled, heady on the memory of Sam drinking her blood, red promises falling from his red lips. “He has big plans.” She bit her lips, smiling around her teeth. “He’s gonna save us all--us and the world.”

“Do you believe him? That he’ll bring joy and peace and goodwill towards men?”

“I’m not a man,” Ruby said.

“But do you believe him?”

The wheels of their bike kicked up dust and gravel from the path. Green fronds brushed their faces. They should have been wearing helmets, but this world, this world of humanity, could not hurt them because they had none left. 

Though she remembered what it was like to be human.

And sometimes--sometimes, like now as thigh muscles flexed and released, propelling the bike, the pull of the threaded leather handle bars against her palms, the microscopic shred and tear that would grow into callouses if she pushed herself harder--hard enough not to destroy, but to shape herself into something new, something and someone that was still her.

Or sometimes, when she stood still in the water of the pool in the deepest end, the part so deep she couldn’t stand against the floor and there was still a foot of water above her head, hair floating behind her, body so light it was almost like she hadn’t had a body and she hadn’t had one for years, for hundreds of years, so in some ways, it was like coming back home. 

But then this body, this soft human body, so treacherous, burned for air. And if she fluttered her feet, her body would rise, breaking the surface, mouth gasping down air like it was her last hope.

Then, it was more than memory.

It was almost like--being. 

“I believe in you.”

He turned and looked at her then, one hand still resting on the handlebars, the other held out towards her like she was the sun on a cold winter day. “That’s my girl.”

They didn’t see the thin wire the thick wheels of their bikes tripped, nor the falling swing of the thick branch that knocked them from their bikes to the ground until it was too late. 

Ruby stared up into the grey sky, stunned, frail cage of her body quivering from the impact, lungs too shocked to breathe until they remembered that it was okay.

She wasn’t human.

Not even in this human body.

Lucifer pulled her up, his palms dirty. “You alright?”

“Fine,” she said, “just fine. Tough as nails, you know me.”

They headed up back to the path. “I need you to talk to me about what’s going on with the island,” Lucifer said. “I know that Casey and Garth are dead. Crowley, also, is missing. Have you heard anything about that?”

“Heard he skipped town because he was mad at you.” 

Lucifer rolled his eyes. “He thought he was my equal. His little pride was wounded that we did not see eye to eye, yet how could we when we are on different planes of existence? Prick.”

“You think he’s dead too?" 

“I think it might be a distinct possibility.”

“Father Gil also isn’t answering his phone,” Ruby said. “It might be nothing.”

“Any angels dead yet? Anymore humans--hunters or otherwise?” 

Ruby shook her head. “If there are, no one has told us about it.”

Lucifer shook his head. “Keep your ear to the ground, your eyes peeled. I want to know everything. Everything is dependent on you. I am depending on you.”

Ruby dropped to her knees, kissed the back of Lucifer’s hand. “I swear, I will not let you down. I am better than any of them, and I have served you more faithfully than Abaddon, your first knight.” She pulled Abaddon’s knife from its scabbard, from where she had strapped it to the small of her back. “I swear this blade in your fealty. It like me and my body are pledged in service to you--and it will not turn false against you. I am well forged and will not shatter in your hand.”

“That’s why you’re my favorite,” Lucifer said.

Something hot burned in her, not hot like hellfire but something warm, and Ruby stayed on her knees, savoring the warmth, the hot weight that brought no pain. 

A sound crunched in the forest, and Ruby was on her feet in an instant, her body a shield between it and Lucifer. 

Smoke rose between the trees, a low growl emanated from the gloom.

“Hellhounds,” Ruby said, her voice threaded thin and high because if you survived the first burning, they ripped whatever scraps of safety and home you had gathered within you to shreds because they ate your heart, chewed the pit of your soul like gristle before spitting you back out. 

Lucifer said something, an ancient language that not even Ruby knew. But the hellhound continued its advance, and Lucifer was the one who fell back before its prowl.

“What’s wrong?” Ruby said. She held the blade in her hand, loose and ready, like it was a part of her, another mouth, another fang, to rip and shred. She did not need to see her target--she could already see the hellhound from where it dimpled the earth with its weight. 

“This hellhound has never heard my voice before,” Lucifer said, voice calm. “It is not one of mine.”

Ruby nodded, swift and hard. “We need to run. We need to survive.” Ruby preferred fighting smart instead of making a point. Tangling with a hellhound was dangerous at the best of times, but these days? Well, one never could be too sure of who’s friends and enemies were. There might be more than just a stray hellhound in these woods, and if Ruby couldn’t choose the battlefield or the players then why even bother to stay and fight? 

And Lucifer must have agreed because they flew through the woods--Ruby’s eyes black, Lucifer’s fallen grace gleaming like twin moons until they came to the river, rushing so its waves capped white. They jumped it, not quite reaching the shore, and they scrabbled up the muddy banks, ruining their fine clothes.

Lucifer stumbled towards the deeper forest, but Ruby whipped around, pulled out the crucifix that had burned her the night before--and, the beads hard in her palm, she began to mutter a blessing.

Steam choked from her mouth like she was a dragon instead of human, and the waters boiled around the crucifix. The words burned her tongue, blistered her lips, eyes painted black, twin pieces of obsidian glass as she finally let the crucifix fall into the river from her scorched palm, trembling and shaking as she sat back on her heels even as the hellhound crashed through the brush on the opposite bank, the holy stream bringing it up close, stopping it sharp as a dime.

Behind them, the hellhound howled like its heart was broken, like it would never know hope or love again.

The sound she’d made time and again in hell. The one as familiar as hello and goodbye.

But she’d found hope. She’d found love.

She found it in Alastair, for all of that, in Lucifer, despite the heavy cage they’d locked him in--in Sam.

The sharp point of her tongue picked at her lips as she heard Lucifer creep behind her, his hand heavy against her shoulder.

“Well done,” he said. “Well done.”

She wanted to collapse in the brush, to breathe until her skin healed from the holy words she had spoken but she couldn’t--not in front of Lucifer. Instead, she rose to her feet, brushing off the dirt and twigs that were ground into her skin.

"A demon has turned against us,” Lucifer mused as they wandered through the forest. “Who do you think it might be?”

“Crowley kept hellhounds,” Ruby said. “We already know he’s making grabs for the throne. Regicide is a time honored method of such power plays.”

Lucifer shook his head. “Crowley is very fond of his hellhounds. He has them trained to perfection. This one was--unrefined. Amateur work.” They walked in silence for a moment. “What about Meg?” 

“What about her?” Ruby said.

 Lucifer shrugged. “She’s been with angels for a long time.”

“She’s been with them for you.” Ruby held herself very still, like a deer in a sunlit glade. “Lilith herself consorts with angels, and her loyalty is beyond question--just as Meg’s is. We are forged in the same fire--we work as one, and I know her mind just as she knows mine, she is as true as Abaddon’s blade because she is the one who reforged it just as I am the one who wields it.” 

“Lilith consorts with angels?” Lucifer said, very quietly. “Angels who are not me?”

“I thought you knew,” Ruby breathed. Didn’t Lucifer know everything about the people who served him? That’s what he had told her, peering into the tattered remains of her soul, a thin veil that hid nothing now, that he could, that he could see her, the real her, that no one else could see, and that it was good. 

Lucifer smiled at her. “Do not fear.”

Did this mean that Lilith was not true to Lucifer?

“Do not trouble yourself,” Lucifer said. “I am not troubled--nor should you.”

Ruby shook herself as if from a daze. “Thank you--but it’s not Meg. This I swear to you.”

“I know,” Lucifer said. “I know all those who are true to me.”

Why was it so hard to think through the pain of the blessing? Had she grown soft, living on earth all these years? Without the fires of hell to burn away the dross, was she an impure, weak thing?

She rubbed her wrist across her eyes, eyes focusing on Lucifer, on the cold feel of his lips as he pressed them to her forehead, to the way the chill spread through her skin, beyond her heart, beyond the nub of her soul, beyond, beyond, beyond, to that space only Lucifer could find, the place he had showed her, that sacred part of her she hadn’t even known existed.

 ~*~

Dean had barely made it downstairs to eat breakfast (a toasted everything bagel with cream cheese) before a heavy arm was slung around his shoulders, and Sam’s voice in his ear. “How you doing, Dean?”

Dean’s eyes shuttered, lips parted for a moment. “Fine, I guess.” 

“So Ruby and Luke went off somewhere’s for some bonding time, leaving me all alone to figure out what shape the napkins should be folded in and whether they should be eggshell white or cream. Personally, white is white. C’mon, you gotta help me out. He nudged his shoulder gentle like. “Get my back on this one.”

“Oh jeeze, Sam, you can’t blame me if Ruby doesn’t like anything.”

Dean wasn’t sure if was up to this, but he had promised. How could Sam think about the wedding after two deaths?

Something must have shown in his face because Sam leaned in close. “I know what it must look like--believe me, Pamela and Missouri both been on me about it, asking me to delay the wedding in respect of the dead.” Sam stopped, his breathing harsh, skin along his throat ticking. “But I can’t do that because the town can’t be allowed to remember, it can’t be allowed to think back to murders, and then, inevitably, to the John Winchester murders. We can’t go back there, Dean, because you may not have been there--but I was.”

“I was there,” Dean said. “Don’t tell me I wasn’t there.” 

Sam pointed to his own temple with his finger. “In your mind, maybe. All fucked up in your own self, maybe sure. But you weren’t here, in this place, right here.”

Dean turned away, his lip trembling. “Don’t put this on me--”

“--I’m not,” Sam said, his hands on his shoulders, on his throat, on his cheeks. “I’m just, just trying to tell you what it was like. You know how long it took for us to dance the maypole dances from that tree like we used to? We still aren’t doing it. We’re still not over it. I saw it in your eyes--could see you wonder how any of us could just keep on, could just get married here of all places. Well, I’ll tell you why--because this town needs to move in the now instead of in memories. I’m not gonna let whatever tragedy is hitting this island ruin that. This town needs to heal, and it won’t heal if we don’t push it.”

“You can’t push healing, Sam!” Dean said. “I know, I’ve tried. And that’s not fair to ask anybody of that.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Sam said.

Dean hated it when Sam got like this. He loved Sam like a brother, but sometimes it was like he just didn’t get it, that he was so focused on what he thought needed to happen he forgot about stuff along the way.

How could he tell Sam that he didn’t want to be best man? That he wanted to go home? How could he tell him about the thread of fear spooled in his belly at the thought of the missing boats. How this island felt less like a holiday retreat and more like a trap with every passing second. That even though he knew that Winchester was gone, that the Sheriff had killed him dead, that he still saw John Winchester in his sleep, in the shadows, in the way that Sam was looking at him right now but when he blinked it was Sam, just Sam, his very best friend Sam.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I understand.”

Then there was that way Sam said something that made it sound like he’d apologized, but Dean couldn’t remember the words coming out of his mouth, not once.

So Sam shook himself, rubbing his palms together. “So what do you think? Eggshell or cream?” 

A voice drawled out behind them. “I always did prefer periwinkle blue myself.” 

Dean jerked around--saw Benny’s smiling face, and hurled himself towards him, hands on his shoulders, patting him softly, like he couldn’t quite believe that this was real, that this was really happening.

“What are you doing here, man? I thought you were in LA still, keeping an eye on your little cafe?”

Benny frowned, pulling his grey sailor’s cap from his head, and frowning. “You told me to come.”

“What?” Dean said.

Benny pulled out his phone and showed him a text that said it was from Dean, one that said, please come, I need you.

“So you just dropped everything?” Sam said. “You two must have something really special.”

Benny smiled at Dean, but Dean was too preoccupied staring at the text on Benny’s phone to return it. “You could say,” Benny said, his voice soft.

Dean pulled out his own phone and yeah, there was the text. Had he been drunk when he’d sent it?

“You alright, Dean?” Benny said.

Dean shook himself, sliding his phone back into his pocket and returning Benny’s. “Yeah, everything’s cool.” When he finally let himself look up, relief washed over his anxiety, like Benny was enough to say that everything was okay, everything was going to be fine.

“Oh, Sam, I’m sorry,” Dean said, “but this is Benny. We’re uh--” he was gonna say friends, but that seemed like a small word, a way too small word for what they were. Because how does a has been hunter and a vampire become friends like they were friends, the kind of trust where Dean never forgot who Benny was, yet it did not frighten him because Dean trusted him to just not hurt him, but to not hurt others too, and Benny kept that trust, kept it close to his heart, treasured it up like Mary, mother of god.

“Friends,” Benny put in, and the word drawled out of his mouth, slow and warm like maple syrup over pancakes, the kind he made when they were still warm from the sex, not ones from a box like Dean made, but from eggs and flour and milk, flipping in his cast iron skillet like there wasn’t anything he could burn because he was just that good.

When a word like that came out of Benny’s voice, the way he said it, it really meant something, and Dean flushed warm in his belly.

“Friends,” Sam said, like he didn’t quite get what that word meant, and how could he, he’d only met Benny just today.

“You holding up? I know that you were concerned--” his voice trailed off, eyes flipping to Sam.

“To be back home?” Sam said.

Something tensed in the air between them, and Dean wished that Benny hadn’t come back when he was with Sam, that he had come back when he’d been with someone else, anybody else, because it felt weird, felt wrong, that Benny showing up when he was with Sam, showing up and it feeling like a rescue, from Sam.

Sam was his best friend, and sure they hadn’t seen each other for years but. He shook the feeling from him. 

“Sam, do you mind if we--”

Something shifted in Sam, and suddenly he was smiling. “Yeah, you know what--go along with Benny. show him the place. I’ll deal with Ruby’s crap by myself. She’ll be back soon anyway so yeah, go on. Show him the roadhouse, I can’t wait until Ellen gets one look at him, gonna offer him best beer on the house.”

“I like that idea,” Dean said. “I like that idea a lot. You sure you’ll be okay by yourself?" 

“Yup,” Sam said. “Go on.”

Dean and Benny walked down the road with their arms slung around themselves even though it wasn’t like LA, and with Benny a solid, warm presence at his side, he didn’t even think to look back.

~*~

Sarah and Bela sat on opposite ends of the bed, Bela at the head, Sarah at the foot. They were carefully not looking at each other. Bela focused on the pillow in her lip, cotton, full of feathers. It was easy to hug.

Sarah had her eyes fixed on the art in their room. Bela knew it was valuable, that Sarah could tell by the brush strokes. It was a girl, an angel maybe. It was hard to focus on it. 

“We need to confront her,” Sarah said.

Bela let her head fall back against the wall with a soft thump. “You don’t just confront demons, Sarah. They win because they’re stronger, they always win because they’re stronger. They got nothing left to lose because they’ve already lost their souls, even the shadow of a hope that their souls can be theirs again.” She shook her head, palms up in her lap, fingers curled loosely like she was an orphan, like she was asking please sir, can I have some more. She clenched her hands into fists and hid them in the small of her back. “You’re taking this too personally,” Bela said. “Lilith is a mark. You don’t go up to the mark and ask her where she keeps her valuables.”

“We can’t just keep looking through this house,” Sarah said. “You know that. We’re running out of time.”

Bela looked up from her pillow. “We? Do you mean me or you?” 

“I mean both of us--” 

“I don’t think you need to worry, darling,” Bela said. “The finest hunting dogs ever bred don’t even compare to a hellhound. You could be standing right next to me, and they wouldn’t even touch you. So you’ll be safe. You’ll have all the time in the world.”

A tear streaked down Sarah’s cheek. “Why are you saying this?”

“Because it’s true,” Bela said. “I can’t tell you what it means to me that you want to be here for me, but you can’t. No one can. I don’t imagine that you won’t grieve for me, but you’ll have time for that too. And then you’ll have time to find someone new, and I hope that she’ll be beautiful. And that she’ll have more time than I could give you.”

Sarah hung her head between her palms. “That is so not the point.”

Bela smiled at her. “I understand the point. It’s hard to say goodbye.”

“I thought--we were in this together. That we were a ‘we.’ “

“We are. Just not when it comes to this.” Bela frowned at her. “I won’t ask you to promise me that you won’t come after me because I don’t think it’s fair to make people promise things they don’t want to do. But I’m asking you--as your friend, as an us, to please--” 

“Leave you down there?” Sarah glared up at her. “Don’t ask that of me. Don’t you dare.”

“And I’m not,” Bela said. “I’m just asking you to--” her eyes fluttered closed, and she shook her head. “I don’t know what I’m asking you. I just don’t want you to suffer in hell. I didn’t have a choice--not a real choice--but you do. And I don’t want you to choose suffering for me. It’s not romantic. You’ll resent it eventually, you’ll resent me, and then you’ll wish you’d never have done it, and then you’ll wish that you’d never known me. And that’s hard, especially since they’ll probably torture me so long that I won’t even remember you or that this was even a fear I had.” For the first time, her face twisted. “And it won’t be just the things they’ll be doing to you on the rack, it’ll be the things they’ll make you do to get off the rack. And what if I torture you? I could never forgive myself, and I’ve forgiven myself for a lot of bad things.”

“That won’t happen,” Sarah said. “I promise that won’t happen.”

“That is not a promise you can keep,” Bela said. “So don’t, please.”

They were silent again, still tense, still--not all there. “I’ve had enough,” Sarah said, jumping from her place on the bed and running full speed out the door.

“Shit,” Bela hissed, following her.

They flew down the stairs, Sarah taking them two or three at a time, and Bela couldn’t help but remember when she first saw her, in her sleek, black evening dress, pearls at her throat, her feet in six inch heels, black gucci, and carrying herself with grace and poise that drew every eye--every eye from the object Bela’s high end clientele desired and paid her very finely for.

But there wasn’t anything left of that woman in the way that she clod-hopped down the stairs, in such a hurry to go find her doom.

Bela hated how much she loved Sarah.

Sarah found Lilith, though she went by Lily in polite company, in the lobby, surrounded by Meg and some other women, and Bela wondered who these women really were, if Lilith had ensnared them as she had ensnared her, and a sudden stab of grief pierced her heart, and she wondered, she wondered-- 

Sarah tried to collect herself, tried to comb her fingers through her hair, make it smooth and shiny and coifed though she only had a single, ratty rubberband tying it back. Her breath fluttered in her chest, like she’d just been running a race.

“I need to speak to you, Mrs. Dante,” Sarah said.

“Well, I’m right here,” she said.

“Alone, Lilith. Alone.”

The women around her tensed, their muscles already coiling to fight. Bela fought against her fear, hitched a smile, bright and gleaming and cold, to her face. “Unless we’re interrupting something important.”

“Of course not,” Lilith said, waving her ladies away. “Ruby never told me that Sam kept such interesting friends.’ 

“I guess we all have our secrets,” Meg said.

“Unless Sam blabbed all of ours,” Lilith said, voice sweet and soft. “Pay him a visit, would you?”

Meg put her hand to her heart. “I am already on my way.”

“Wait till Ruby returns. Do it after the rehearsal.” 

“Yes, m’lady.”

Sarah waited until Ruby had left before she opened her mouth. “We want--” she stopped, licked her lips, then began again-- “Bela wants her soul back. She wants it now.”

Lilith blinked up at her, cat-eye slow. “And what do you have in exchange?" 

Sarah frowned. “What?”

“I’m not running a charity,” Lilith said. “We’re running a business. Bela wanted out. I wanted her soul. We both got what we wanted.”

“Yeah,” Sarah said. “But with your way, Bela’s going to want to get out again. Doesn’t seem much of a deal to me. Seems like bad business. And I know business.”

Lilith smiled. “Not this kind of business, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me that,” Sarah said. “We’re not sweethearts.”

Lilith raised herself gracefully from her seat, white cotton dress falling in summer folds down her body even though it was a cold, grey morning. “Call me when you have something of equal value to exchange. But keep in mind--a soul is only worth a soul.” As she passed by Sarah, she lingered, her hand soft and cool along her wrist. “Has anyone ever told you that you are a very beautiful girl?”

Bela’s nausea hit her in the gut, and she shuttered her eyes down so she wouldn’t have to look, cringing away as Lilith passed on close, hoping she wouldn’t pause, but she did. “You. Well, you must have been very lovely in your prime.”

But even with her last, parting shots, she still had one more. “Without something of equal value, the only way you’re getting the soul back is over my dead body--and demons like me? Are hard to kill. Good luck.”  Then she left.

Bela breathed shallowly through her nose, heart palpitating through her chest, her body, her bones. Lilith was gone, but she could hear her, still. She shook her self. “I told you that wouldn’t work. Any other bright ideas?”

“We kill Lilith,” Sarah said. “That’s my bright idea.”

Bela looked up at her. “And with what? Lilith wouldn’t have told us that if she was afraid we’d do it and know how.”

“We’ll figure out a way,” Sarah said. “I know we will.”

“What if we killed her politically,” Bela said. “Took away her leverage.”

Sarah nodded. “Exactly. Take away her power. Set somebody else up. Payment--your soul. Only question is, who wants that position bad enough?”

Bela looked around. “Where’s that slime bag Crowley?”

~*~

Ed stared up on his bed.

Maggie knocked on his door, voice coming thin through the door. “C’mon Ed, this isn’t funny anymore. Spruce is missing, and now Harry is too.”

Ed squeezed his eyes shut. Harry. 

His body still hurt from where he’d buried him the night before. He wondered if he’d buried him deep enough. 

It deep enough.

“Ed, c’mon, talk to me!”

“Leave me the fuck alone!” Ed shouted. “Just leave me alone.”

“Fuck you!” Maggie yelled back even louder. “I never even wanted to come on this stupid trip and you practically dragged me out here and now your friends are missing--your friends, not my friends--and the only one who gives a shit is me? Fuck you for that. They are not my problem--you are not my problem!”

“Just leave me alone, Maggie, just leave me alone.”

Then there was nothing. 

That’s what he liked about Maggie. She always left him alone when he asked her to. Maybe he should learn to return the favor, one of these days.

~*~

Sam knocked on the Sheriff’s door with his fist until she answered it. She was looking older. Her white tee was untucked from her khaki police pants, belt undone too. Brown-grey sheriff blouse open too, folds obscuring the silver sheriff star, looking a little tarnished now.

“Sam,” Jody said, slow.

Sam nodded. “Haven’t been able to get a hold of Father Gil. Need to make sure we got everything ready for the rehearsal. It starts in four hours but I haven’t heard from in days, and neither has Ruby. I figured I would just go on over to the church, but I’m a little nervous. Why don’t you come with me?” 

“Well, shit,” Jody said. “Let me get my hat.”

When she came back, she had more than just her hat. Had her clothes back on straight--sure they were still a little wrinkled--but everything was tucked in military neat with the buckle done up right. He mock-saluted. “Sheriff.”

“Don’t give me that,” Jody said. 

They drove in silence for the most part. “How’s Dean doing?” 

“Good,” Sam said. “Friend of his from LA showed up today. Still trying to figure out how that happened since there are no boats.”

Jody mmed a yes. 

“Any leads on that?”

“Found one of them burned up and washed to shore,” Jody said. “I’ve already called in for the coast guard, but the funny thing is is that something’s wrong with the communication system. I’ve got Tracy looking into it but she’s no -- god, I don’t even know what she needs to be to fix it.”

 “A miracle worker,” Sam said, smiling.

“I guess you got that right,” Jodye said. “She volunteered, said she knew a little about something. I just hope she’s right.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam said. “Things are going to hell, aren’t they?”

“I guess you could say that,” Jody said. “But at least the island’s got something nice to look forward to.” 

“What?”

“Your wedding, Sam, your wedding.”

“See that’s what I was trying to tell Dean,” Sam said.

“He didn’t see it?”

Sam shook his head. “Made me feel real guilty.” 

“That is his way,” Jody said, as they pulled into the church, “that is his way.”

Gravel crunched under their shoes. “Doesn’t the good father usually come out and greet his sheep?” Jody said.

They pushed their way through the doors, pretty stained glass with angels and god and men carved from white glass. “Father Gil?” Sam called. “Father Gil?”

They’d only just made into the foyer when they smelled it. Smelled blood, smelled death. Jody pulled her gun from her holster, flipped the safety off. 

Sam whistled softly as they entered the main congregation room, neat with its green velvet patched pews, going towards the altar, upon which was lain a goat, still bleeding from the throat, a red thread tied around its curving horn.

“You can say that again,” Jody said. “In Old Testament, this is how they made sacrifice for their sins, though usually the goat was still alive, wandering to its death in the wilderness.”

She peered at the flow of blood from the throat to the pool on the ground. 

“Whose goat is this?” Sam said. “I didn’t know there was goat on the island.” 

Jody sat back on her heels. “It’s my son’s. He always wanted one, so I got him one. Thought it was time after I sent Dean away. Thought he’d be less lonely.”

“You think he could have done this?” Sam said. “I hadn’t realized he felt so strongly against me. Or Ruby. Or anyone for that matter.”

“He didn’t do this,” Jody said. “I’m not going to say he’s too good for it because I know he’s not. But I am going to say that he loved that goat too damn much to lead it bleeding on somebody else’s altar. Help me take care of the body--then we can look for Father Gil’s.”

“I don’t understand,” Sam said. “We just found a goat, unless there’s a human corpse hiding somewhere that I don’t see.”

“Father Gil would have called this in--there probably wouldn’t have even been an opportunity to slaughter it if he were still here. He’s missing. He might be dead. Maybe he had a heart attack and no one knew. Casey was his only kin, but she’s already dead so we need to be prepared for the worst.” 

After they got rid of the dead goat, after they aired the chaired out, Sheriff Jody Mills found the body of Reverend Gil in the stream, pieces of him all strung together with fishing line. 

As she reeled him in, each drag of the head and feet and limbs making it harder to pull him through the muck, tears streamed down her cheeks.

But Jody spared no tears for demons--only for the truce that was jeopardized with each demon death.

~*~ 

“No, but really, how did you make it over here?” Dean said. They were in his bed, their clothes off, sheets clean and cold against their bare skin.

“I swam,” Benny said. “No boats.”

“I guess,” Dean said, “a vampirate would need know how to swim.”

“Know how to do a whole lot of other things too.” Benny put his hand on his thigh, slow, caressing, thumb right over the vein. “You sure you alright? You looked like you weren’t expecting me.”

Dean covered his eyes with his hand. “It’s nothing. I just--don’t remember sending the text.” His cheeks flushed with shame. “I’ve been drinking a little bit since I got on the island. I know that I said I wouldn’t but--”

Benny didn’t say anything, just took his hand and held it, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s alright. Three steps forward, two steps back. It’s okay.”

Dean clung to him for a few moments before he looked at the clock and groaned. “I have to go. There’s this damn...wedding rehearsal thing.”

“Truly a plague upon this earth,” Benny said, laughing. “But you go on--git. Don’t be late.”

“I’ll see you later. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Dean dressed, not as quick as he could because he knew that Benny liked to see him dress like this, liked to see him like this, just him, and his body.

~*~

Benny waited for Dean to leave before sighing and crawling from the bed. It didn’t feel right being here. The deal with the texts, and Dean forgetting because of drink--it didn’t feel right. Felt like a bad wind blowing.

And yet, Dean seemed fine, for the most part. Things had happened, Benny knew, things that Dean wasn’t ready to talk about yet. And Dean had pulled them both into bed, whimpering with want and need, barely even able to keep his hands off of him, begging Benny to touch him gently there or softly here, and Benny had because Dean had asked him to--

And they hadn’t talked, much. That was the strange thing that they hadn’t talked about what had happened on the island, and his eyes shuttered closed when Benny asked him how’d he’d been, how--and that hurt.

Even before the sex, they’d always talk. And sometimes, sex came before talking and sometimes they talked during sex (cried during it too), but here? Here, everything was in a rush--he saw as staff bustled in and out with catered food stuff that neither tempted him or made his mouth water. 

And there was no sign of the hunters that Dean had warned him about. In fact, according to what the cab driver had told him, no one or any other strange thing had died in roughly seven years.

The only dead things were deer, and that because their population needed to be thinned.

Dean wasn’t one to lie, and the dissonance worried Benny. The fact that there might be too much to do before they had a proper sit down chat worried Benny.

He wandered the paths, peering through the trees. Blood had been spilt in these woods, could smell it a mile off, and he wondered if Dean knew whose it was.

Closing his eyes, trying to determine if it was human, monster, or demon blood, he never saw the sword come swinging his way, saw-blade teeth chewing through flesh and bone, severing his head from his body minutes before he ever even knew he was in danger. 

~*~

Looking back as Charlie combed her red hair, she could hardly believe that Madison was there with her, her lean, lithe body naked and beautiful, that Madison had forgiven her, and had come to her, here, now. 

She was sleeping now--it was always hard, after the full moon, and, then they had done it, had so much sex that Charlie’s legs were still wibbling and wobbling just like her heart, and then they had slept and the only reason she was awake was because of the rehearsal.

Charlie brushed Madison’s hair from her forehead, and pressed a kiss to her temple. “I’ll see you tonight,” she whispered. 

She went to the Church, getting mud on her nice shoes, but that was alright they weren’t technically nice, they were just her newest pair of converse, red, like Dorothy Gale’s would’ve been red if she’d been living at a time where converse could have been as fine as any ruby slipper. 

Sometimes, living in a world like this, it kind of was like Oz--a world of wonder and danger too.

And other times, like now, as she watched Missouri Mosely fill in for Father Gil, who was still missing, it was tedious but good too because look at Ruby smiling, her forehead a little bruised because apparently she’d fallen off her bike a while back, but they could probably cover it up with makeup for the Real Big Day, and then there was Sam too, smiling like his life was here, like every worthwhile thing was here, and what a wonder that was.

Everybody was there. Mr. Dante, as father of the bride. Mrs. Dante too, sitting in a pew right behind her. All of Dean’s friends--as Dean stood there beside the groom, trying to look happy but she could tell that he wasn’t. His smile was too big, just too much and, despite that muchness, it still never spilled over into his dead eyes.

Missouri said, “And I now proclaim you man and wife--” that Maggie girl, the one who was hired to film the ceremony, knelt in the aisle so she could get a good luck at the kiss as someone flipped the switch to turn the light off so that the unity candles could shine bright, and the chandelier clanked. 

Charlie looked up, frowning, because something looked wrong with that chandelier, something--

It fell down before Charlie could blink away.

Something with a blade--but not something that had been made to be a weapon, but something that could be a weapon if someone wanted to use it as such, something not even sharp but what needs to be sharp with gravity to give it pull--

what was it, a spade of some sorts-- 

Then it split through Luke Dante’s head, slicing through skin, crunching through bone, splattering skull chunks and brain matter and blood on everyone in the near vicinity.

Dean’s face was painted with. Slick with it. Red with it.

He probably wouldn't be able to wear that shirt again either. Blood was hard to get out.

Luke Dante’s body crumpled. His face was ruined first--but it crumpled at the knees, body weight crushing him, splitting his shins as he fell and fell until his body hit the floor with a dull thud and a shallow splat.

Everybody screamed.

Charlie put her hands to her throat, felt the skin vibrating, hadn’t even heard her voice screaming with them.

She felt something trickling down her skin. Saw a thin ribbon of blood.

Not hers.

Luke Dante’s. 

Her breath hitched. For a second, Luke Dante was wasn’t on the floor, but was standing, as the spade split his head open like a cantaloupe over and over and over. 

“Get up!” Mrs. Dante screamed. “Get up!”

But he didn’t get up.

And then the sheriff was there, ushering them out of the room. Charlie saw Castiel covering Luke Dante’s face with his trench coat.

The tan was drenched through with blood in minutes.

It was ruined. Completely ruined.

Oh god, oh god, oh god, why have you forsaken us.

Luke Dante did not get up.

Ruby flung herself over him and Charlie thought it was a good thing that she wasn’t wearing her pretty white wedding dress because she was getting blood all over her front, and Sam was pulling her away, pulling her away by her belly, and Charlie thought that she’d kill a man who did that to her, even though she was rising to her feet, feet stepping over the prone body of Luke Dante, and pulling Dean by the hand to come outside, to come outside now, because he didn’t need to see this---

and thank god the sheriff was here, and she had the same idea, she was ushering everybody out, telling them to wait outside, to wait outside because--because--

there had to be answer. There had to be.

Ruby was on her knees in the mud, Sam clinging to her, as she sobbed and sobbed.

Charlie looked over her shoulder, at the tool protruding from Luke Dante’s head. She remembered what it was now. Was a head spade. 

For hunting whales.

It didn’t belong in the head of a man. 

She remembered how John Winchester had used head spades to kill people, and she barely made it into the bushes before she threw it up, threw it all up.

“Fuck,” she whispered, “fuck.” 

Kevin must have remembered too because he was right there with her, his face pale as a ghost.

“It’s happening again,” Kevin whispered. “It’s happening again. Happening again.” And then he was crying too, just like they all were, and they never even gave a shit about Luke Dante.


	7. Goat

Dean stumbled into his bedroom, his hands red, his white shirt red, his face red, and he could not keep whimpering, deep in his throat, like some wounded animal. He needed Benny, he needed Benny now, but the bed was empty, the covers pulled up sailor-neat with a note pinned to the pillow that he’d gone and a walk and that he’d be back soon.

Well, that was useless--even Aslan called all times soon.

Dean held the note in his shuddering palms, re-reading the lazy scrawl even as his vision blurred, even as his eyes stung as he wiped them hurriedly with his wrist--his red wrist, and suddenly there was a swath of blood like a mask over his eyes, and Dean splashed cold water on his face. 

He hadn’t seen something like that since before he’d seen Mary’s skull sliced in two by just such a headspade.

He let the cold water run over his hands until the skin turned numb. His rubbed his ring finger, still empty, the ring still missing. 

Nobody should see something like that once in their lives--and he’d seen it twice.

He didn’t even care about Luke Dante, but this one was worse somehow--and that was terrible, an insult to his mother’s memory--but he’d found her like that, found John dragging her way to the may tree, hung with bodies torn to shreds instead of pastel ribbons--and Dante--Dante had been alive, had been standing, and then the thing had fell, and he’d crumpled, and it was just a three second picture replaying again and again and again.

Fine, then not.

Fine, then not.

“Shut up,” he whispered, squeezing his eyes against the image. “Shut up.”

He stripped out of his clothes, putting his nice white shirt and his nice grey slacks into a plastic bag, tying it into a hard knot.

Then he turned the hot water on, all the way to hot, and stepped under the streaming spray that burned his skin scarlet.

And even that pain was not enough to interrupt the endless loop of fine, head-spade drop, not fine, fine, head-spade drop, not fine, fine-head-spade drop, not fine--

 ~*~ 

Lilith and Meg and Ruby gathered together, some ways away from the church as the sheriff tried to keep people in order and attempted to preserve the crime scene.

They were splashed with red.

“He’s dead,” Lilith said, her voice tight.

“But that can’t be,” Meg said, fingers coiled tight in her hair. Castiel stood a little to the side, his hands in his pockets, watching the body through the window. “It was just a head spade. And he was Lucifer.”

Ruby kicked at a stone with her boot. “Believe it. Didn’t you feel it?  A shift like the air following a thunderclap?”

The women nodded. 

“That was a spell,” Ruby went on. She rubbed her upper arms, prickled with goose bumps from the chill, fervently. “I don’t know what kind of spell--but, it was probably something that made Lucifer vulnerable.”

“Oh wow I’m terrified,” Meg said, deadpan. She spread her hands towards the church so that her thumbs and forefingers shaped a camera. “Do you think it was just targeted at Lucifer? Or do you think we’re all affected and vulnerable ugly ducklings?”

Lilith stiffened, and her eyes strayed towards two women--Ruby thought their names were Bela and Sarah but she wouldn’t have been able to tell you which was which. They were huddled together, their hands on each other’s elbows, forehead to forehead, lips whispering together.

Ruby exhaled a shuddering breath. “I don’t know.”

Meg bit her lips. “Always one way to find out. Anybody have any supernatural buddies they’ve secretly always wanted to get ganked but never had the time to find the right amount of whatever it was to do the job properly and didn’t feel low enough to bribe a hunter to do it for them?” Three pairs of eyes turned towards Castiel.

Lilith narrowed her eyes, a satisfied smile curling around her teeth. “He’s beyond his use--has been for sometime.”

“Use them and then spit them right back out.” Meg licked her fingers as she dropped a wink. “That’s how I like them too.”

Lilith, tall in her white, red-splattered shift, nodded in approval. “Well, someone’s observant.”

“Oh, I know everything.” Meg took a step closer to Castiel, who still peered at the window. His face was still, betraying no emotion. “I thought he would have been happier. I guess even he knows that we’re in for some deep shit.”

“Suspect list now,” Lilith said. “I don’t trust the sheriff to run this one down, to hunt the person who did this like the dog he is.”

“Did you ever trust the sheriff for anything?” Ruby said.

Lilith shook her head, then snapped her fingers. “I’m waiting.”

“Clarence,” Meg said. “I think our little angel may be just about ready to make it up as he goes, penned up with all that frustration not just toward Lucifer, but towards Michael too--wherever he is in all this mess.”

“I know where he is,” Lilith said. “I’ll speak to the sheriff about returning our friend back to him so that she can keep an eye on things. In case Dean decides to off another major player.”

“You really think Dean had something to do with this?” Ruby’s eyebrows were slanted upwards. “He doesn’t even know that he’s a major player in the apocalypse--he still thinks his surrogate mommy hates him.”

“It’s not a risk we can take,” Lilith said. “One major player is already down, and the only one who survives is the one that wants to wear Dean like an evening tux? No, we can’t rule out any options.”

By this time, Sam had sidled close to Ruby. He put his arms around her. There was still streaks of blood caked along his upper arms. “We talking suspects?”

They nodded, though Lilith’s eyes slitted at him. Ruby wondered if she could suspect Sam of all people--but no, Sam loved Lucifer as a father, fought with him like one too, sometimes. But this? This would have been patricide, and Sam, legacy to hunters or not, would have thought more than twice before taking such a step.

“Get this,” Sam was saying, “but when we were looking for Father Gil--whom we found, by the way, in pieces in the river--” Lilith made a snarl in her throat, her head half-turned away-- “we also found a dead goat on the altar, like a sacrifice to god.”

“I thought I’d smelled something,” Ruby said, “something holy. It was itching under our skins, didn’t you feel it?”

The demon ladies nodded.

“Who owns the goat?” Lilith asked.

“Adam does. Dean’s kid brother.” 

Lilith frowned. “I can almost see it. Adam finds out the secrets his mother’s been hiding--offers two sacrifices to god. One for the murder he is about to commit, and second, the head of Lucifer, god’s own worst enemy.” She looked back towards the church, where the head-split body still lay crumpled and dead. “Truly the Abel to Dean’s Cain, who was too selfish to sacrifice what he loves best.”

“Do you want us to speak to the sheriff?” Ruby asked. “Meg and I can handle it.”

Lilith’s eyes burned white as she turned from them towards the church, towards Lucifer’s dead body, toward the insignificant sheriff running the crime scene like it was any other any other crime scene instead of the single most devastating tragedy of an entire history of demons.

All their years of hell, all their years of torture, had been filed to this knife’s edge that they walked, honed to this point, waiting to thrust themselves into the belly of the beast that god and his weakened warrior angels had become--waiting to spring from the shadows to wreak punishment and wrath for their king, for Lucifer, and to burn heaven to ash and dust and forge a new kingdom on its bones--one that was better, one ruled by Lucifer, one--

“No,” Lilith said. “I will deal with Sheriff Jody Mills and her treacherous, scheming ways myself.” She tugged at both their elbows though before they could depart. “Remember--it’s easy to lay blame at Adam’s feet--hell, it might even be true. But--we’ll also need someone that Mills would rather go after--and someone who’ll let us corner the only other people in the series of deaths who haven’t been targeted yet--people besides Lucifer, that is.” 

Meg lidded her eyes half-closed, bit her lip as she stared at the grass at her feet, the blood on her boots.

“Make Castiel look guilty. Put some pressure on the angels. God knows he’s wanted to kill Lucifer for years--let him reap the consequences of his lack of loyalty.” She turned to Meg, cupped her cheek with her palms. “Will you be able to do that for me, Meg? Will you make me proud?”

Meg’s throat was soft and vulnerable as she swallowed. “You know where my loyalties lie.”

Lilith sealed a kiss against her forehead.

“To you, my lady,” Meg whispered. “Now that Lucifer is dead, to you.” 

~*~

Sheriff Jody Mills would have laughed if the truce, hanging by a few tenuous threads, still did not need to be preserved. “You think my boy Adam did this?”

“I do,” Lilith said, her voice dangerous soft. “And I want him to pay for it.”

“If you asked him, how do you kill demons, he’d say that you don’t kill demons--you just send them back to hell.” Jody Mills nailed Lilith with a piercing stare. “You really think that even if he could do this--he knew how to do it? Lucifer is gone. I can feel it. You can too. Not gone to hell gone. But gone-gone.”

“You’ve received confirmation then?” Lilith said.

Jody pulled her cell phone from her pocket. No signal. As usual. “I can get it. In the meantime, I need your people not to do anything rash. Remember--humans, hunters too, and demons have both been killed in the past few days. Maybe it has something to do with what happened here, maybe it doesn’t--but we cannot act before we know for sure.”

“And what’s your vested interest in making sure the killers are found? What’s to stop you from killing Michael, and ending this whole thing, right here, right now?”

“I made a deal,” Jody hissed. “Kissed you on the mouth for it too. I’m as good as my word. You’re pissed off because I found a loophole fine, be pissed off. But don’t for one second think that I would violate the truce as grievously as this.”

Lilith rose to her feet, wrapping her lacy shawl around her shoulders. “You keep your people in line, and I’ll keep mine in line. Ruby and Meg will pursue their own lines of inquiry of course.”

“Just as long as they keep the murdering and bloodshed to themselves I don’t care what they do,” Jody said.

“Good.” Lilith smiled, her eyes rolling up into white. “Shall we kiss on it?”

“Go screw yourself,” Jody said, settling her hat more firmly on her head. She gave some parting instructions to her deputies regarding the crime scene and the evidence they needed to pull, then hauled herself into her police jeep, red and blue lights strobing but no sirens. She almost made it out the drive without incident when she had to slam on the breaks because Lilith had appeared, standing in the mud in the middle of the road, dirtying the hem of her white dress.

“Not so fast, Sheriff,” she said. And Jody could do nothing but wait helplessly as she climbed into the front seat, drawing the seatbelt over her breasts, and snapping it quietly into place. “And drive.”

She made it to the hospital in no time. It was a small island and there was no traffic. She found Tessa easily enough, leaning against the wall in her blue scrubs and her white lab coat, chewing on a pen. 

Tessa looked up at them. If she knew who Lilith was, she showed no fear. “I know why you’re here.”

“Do you?” Lilith asked.

“I do.” Tessa snapped the silver case of her clipboard closed. “You’re here about Lucifer.” She paused, her head tilted, as if she heard a voice from a great distance. 

“Fallen angels the caliber of Lucifer do not die by a simple fisherman’s head spade,” Lilith said. “Ruby and Meg could find nothing supernatural about the blade itself. He should not be dead, yet he does not rise.”

“That is a problem,” Tessa said. “A puzzle, certainly. Why come to me?" 

“Did you reap him?” Jody said.

Tessa huffed a half-laugh. “We reap souls. Do you think that Lucifer had a soul?”

“Monsters have souls,” Jody said. “Demons too. What’s left of their human ones, that is. So what about angels? You just don’t let their grace or whatever leak like ozone in the atmosphere do you?" 

Tessa pursed her lips. “Angels don’t really go anywhere when they die, and they have no soul to reap--unless they’ve ripped out their grace and fallen, then they have a soul, like the former angel Anael possesses a soul. Lucifer fell, but he never ripped out his grace, so he has no soul for me to reap.”

“Tell us something useful, Reaper,” Lilith hissed. “Or I promise that I will find a way to kill you in a way that brings more pain than a multi-dimensional being such as yourself could ever realize existed.”

Tessa smiled at her. “Patience.” She slipped her pen behind her ear. “Angel grace was spun from the stars, and their true forms usually exist outside the dimensions of this world unless they are dragged out of it by supernatural force. What you see there is the vessel that was used as the conduit for this one particular part of Lucifer--one of his many faces, if that’s easier for you. The face that fits best in this dimension. What makes an angel blade unique is that it is capable of piercing through the heart of the dimension the blade and angel share, and forcing its way through all other dimensions the angel possesses--thus killing the angel simultaneously in each plane of existence. Killing the single face of an angel in only one of its planes merely wounds it, and they can and do return.”

“So this head spade,” Lilith said slowly, “only killed Lucifer in this dimension?”

“It should have. But it didn’t. A witch is at work here,” Tessa said, her voice lowering to a whisper. “It tore the dimensions in the place that Lucifer stood, focusing his dimensional presence into that single point, killing him instantly, and scattering his grace through the space of all dimensions--including this one.”

Lilith staggered against the wall and, for the first time in Jody’s memory, looked haggard and old. She raised her arm against Jody, finger pointing threateningly. “You will bring me Pamela and Missouri immediately--”

“Not so fast,” Tessa said. “This is blood magic. It’s built on death. Pamela and Missouri do not work that kind of magic. They are not your suspects. And I will not see myself reaping their souls from your blood-lust.” 

“Death?” Jody remembered Casey, Father Gil, Garth. “What kind of death? The kind of blood ritual that raised Lucifer in the first place? The kind that Azazel wearing John Winchester wreaked?” 

Tessa nodded her head. “Yes.”

Jody slid as close to Tessa as she dared. “How many people have died on this island?”

“You know I can’t tell you that,” Tessa said, looking up at Jody from under her lashes. “It’s against the rules.”

Lilith scoffed. “She probably doesn’t want to know anyway. God, or you know whoever, forbid she realize the full extent of her failure.” She chewed her lip, then gestured toward Jody. “I need to know the full extent of this spell. Was it just targeting Lucifer, or are we all targeted?” She settled herself firmly on the ground, feet shoulder width apart. “Hit me." 

Jody looked her up and down. “With my fist?”

“Do you think you’ll ever get another chance?” Lilith smiled up at her, sweetly, but only for a moment before Jody lashed out, splitting her lip, gashing her own knuckles on her teeth.

Lilith staggered under the force of the blow, which should not be. She was a demon, beyond touch of a mortal’s hand.

Something wet touched her lip, and she prodded it gently with her thumb, because it was tender and sore. Her flesh came away red.

Tessa did not gasp, and her eyes held no surprise. She had known. She probably even know what the spell was, Jody figured, but that was probably also against the rules. Perhaps she should have made sure the pact included reapers instead of finagling them as standing referees. 

“You hurt me,” Lilith said, her voice dazed as she struggled to find her balance. “You’ve wanted to do that for an age, and now it’s possible.”

Jody stared at her hand, at the gash across her knuckles. She didn’t even have time to be concerned with demon cooties that could be transmitted by blood and saliva when she had her gun in hand, barrel focused towards Lilith, deadeye dick square and proud. Her mouth twitched, waiting for Lilith to raise her head, to see that her end after a millennia, had finally come. “Prepare to die,” she said, when Lilith, her eyes almost human, raised themselves to hers.

Tessa stepped between them. “I was not affected by the spell--and you cannot kill me even you wanted to. I will not let you kill Lilith in cold blood. It is not her time, and I was brought here to ensure that you kept your word--loopholes that you found or no.” She turned around towards Lilith, who still stared at the blood on her skin. “Leave us.”

Lilith did not need to be told twice, but she still left with her head held high, her hair flowing loosely down her back. 

Jody still found her beautiful, even after all this time. Even though she knew that the body was just something Lillith had spun in hell to hold her vaporous form here on this earth.

Tessa shook her head, tsking her tongue against her teeth as she guided Jody towards one of the gurneys. “Such a hot head. Hasn’t anyone told you that that’s a good way to get you killed?” She leaned in close, whispering in her ear. “Trust me, I would know.”

“For the first time, she was vulnerable,” Jody said. “For the first time in seven years!”

Tessa put her finger to Jody’s lips. “You have courted death, Jody, and yet you live to tell the tale or complain or utter threats as you desire. You still walk a knife’s edge, and I fear that I will reap you before the week is out. Please be careful.”

“I thought you weren’t allowed to take sides.”

Tessa smiled sadly. “Even at this moment, I am speaking the same words of caution to Lilith and her kind.”

“You say that to all the girls, I imagine.”

Tessa reached for her hand, patted it comfortably. “I suppose I do.”

~*~ 

Dean wandered from the bathroom, still towel-drying his hair. Benny still wasn’t back. There was still no cell reception. There were still no notes.

Just…nothing.

He licked his lips to keep himself from trembling, wished desperately for the silver ring he could spin round and round on his thumb.

He’d never felt so alone. Never felt so helpless, so trapped, so--

A rock pinged his window, nearly shattering the glass as hairline fractures spider-webbed the pane. Dean raised it, peered down, and saw Adam already climbing up the sides, up to his window. “Please, Dean,” he gasped, words coming in husks of air. “You need to help me.” 

It only took a moment for Dean to grasp Adam under his armpits, and to haul him into his bedroom, where he collapsed on the floor, body splayed in all directions, limbs falling open like he knew he could trust Dean not to hurt him or maybe he just didn’t care anymore.

He’d not been this open with him since--well, since before.

“They think that I did it,” he said, his voice hoarse. “They think that I killed Lucifer because of the goat. My goat.” He propped himself up on his elbows, tears and dirt streaked across his cheeks. “Like I’d hurt her. I loved her. I loved that stupid goat.” He shook his head, too long hair falling into his eyes. “Meg and Ruby are out for blood.” 

“The sheriff?” Dean asked.

Adam laughed, collapsed again into helpless giggles. “Mom? You think that Mom can do anything?” He sobered up them, looked Dean right in the eye. “Boy, you have been gone a long time if you think that Mom can do anything useful, anything helpful. Mom hasn’t been doing jackshit for years.”

“Hey,” Dean said, his voice sharp. “Don’t talk about her that way.”

“What--” Adam’s face turned mocking, insolent -- “like you call her sheriff all the time? She may not be mom by blood, but she’s mom by right, even if she’s lost her way. At least I still recognize that.”

“Did you come here to fight? Or did you want my help?”

“I don’t want your help,” Adam said. “But I need it.”

Dean nodded. He got that. Knew what that was like. “Hit me.”

“Help me figure out once and for all what kind of mess Mom has gotten herself in.” Adam leaned in close. “She’s been buttoning it up for close to seven years now. There’s gotta be something we can find. And, I know that this thing isn’t just targeting Lucifer, it’s targeting other demons too.” He moved in even closer, his voice lowering with every inch he got nearer to Dean, until they were sitting practically next to each other. “I found something, Dean. I need to show you because I don’t know if it’s real. But if it is--then I know it wasn’t me, and everyone else will have to know too, and then Meg and Ruby will have to leave me alone.” He shivered, and it looked as if his flesh had gone pallid and clammy.

“Okay,” Dean said, his throat dry. How could there be even more bodies?

“Shimmy out the window?” Adam said, “just like old times, okay?”

“Okay.” As Dean flung his leg over the sill he said, “I cannot believe that the Sheriff always said that I was the bad influence instead of you.” 

Adam just grinned up cheekily at him and swung down, overestimating the drop and tumble-rolled down the space for a little while, eventually climbing to his feet, and groaning, while Dean still felt carefully for the ground, and stepped on it without so much as even jumping. “And that,” he said, “is how it’s done.”

“Shut up, you big time city boy.” Adam brushed shoulders with him, but it was more like the good natured way he used to have done such things, instead of a way that said get lost.

Dean closed his eyes, treasured it, then followed.

“I found it this way,” Adam called, hurrying through the brush despite his sore limbs. “Couldn’t believe it when I saw it--almost didn’t recognize him he’d been dead for so long.” He stopped up short, raised his finger to the trees. “There.” Then he dashed to the trunk, fingers fumbling for a green rope that had been secured around one of the lower hanging branches.

Dean squinted--not sure what he was looking for at first--but then seeing dark splotches in the green foliage. Something shook, and a shoe--a nice, businessman shoe that should have been polished to a gleaming black but was now caked with blood, dirt, and something that looked suspiciously like guts--dropped to the ground, right at Dean’s feet.

He jumped back a few paces as more branches groaned and the body--for yes, it was a body, Dean could see that now--split in two, spilling out guts and an odor that had Dean on his knees, clutching his stomach sucking in breath after panicked breath in his sleeve, and Adam too. 

“I didn’t do this,” Adam said. “I didn’t do this, whoever did this did Lucifer too because don’t you see, don’t you see John Winchester kills with a head spade, this dude kills with a head spade. John Winchester swung someone up, nearly torn in half, and this dude swings someone up, nearly torn in half. I didn’t do it, I didn’t do it!” His voice was shrill now, and Dean groped for him, and pulled him down so that they clung to each other on their knees in the woods, looking up at the mutilated body swinging pendulum slow.

“I didn’t do it because he’s back,” Adam moaned, his eyes closed, “he’s back, he’s back, he’s back--”

“We need to show Sam,” Dean said. “We need to show Sam right away.”

Adam looked up at him, his back hot and sweaty against Dean’s stomach. “Why?”

“Because--I think that’s his Uncle Crowley. Or Ruby’s Uncle Crowley. I’m not sure which one. They just said Uncle Crowley. We’ll go to the sheriff too.”

“You think Mom will believe me?” Adam said. 

“She already does. I’m sure of it.”

They didn’t have to go all the way back to the inn before they found Sam. “I saw you guys leave. I just wanted to make sure you guys are okay. Ruby’s pissed.” He looked at Dean, his mouth turned at an unhappy slant. “She blames me, I think.”

“I’m pretty sure she doesn’t,” Adam said. “Last I heard, they were all looking after me.” 

“Well, I mean--”

“--but you need to see this,” Dean interjected. “Something is very wrong, and I swear to god if there is one, that my brother had nothing to do with what happened to Ruby’s dad.”

Sam frowned. “Let’s go then.”

So in no time around, Dean found himself going back to the corpse, and he’d thought he’d been able to avoid it, to at least defer it, but no. Sam stared up at the corpse, his mouth open, his eyes wide, blood draining from the red in his cheeks. “Uncle Crowley,” he whispered. 

“But do you see,” Adam said, his voice pressing and urgent, “it couldn’t have been me, it couldn’t have because John Winchester’s returned.” 

Sam’s mouth pinched over his teeth, and he turned his eyes away from the bloated, rotten, torn corpse. “Sheriff Mills said she killed him.” 

“What if she was lying--” Adam’s voice came out in a rush. “What if she was mistaken. What if his ghost’s come back. You know that happens, you know it.” 

“Dean,” Sam said, “What do you think?”

Dean remembered the sheriff’s attic. Remembered the pictures. Maybe he should have shown this to Sam earlier. “I need to show you something, something in the Sheriff’s attic--”

When they went up steps, Dean went for the key that was under the mat, but Adam pushed him aside. “Don’t bother. She changed the locks yesterday. Should’ve known something was up then.”

“Do you think she knew you came over?” Sam said.

Dean shrugged. “If she did, she never confronted me about it.”

After they went aside, Adam hauled the attic ladder-case steps down and they all climbed up, one after the other. Hunched over in the cramped space, Dean never realized just how tall they were. “Look,” he said. “It’s John Winchester--photographed after his death.” 

“Oh shit,” Adam said. “Shit, shit, shit. This is my worst nightmare. Oh my god, I thought Tracy was crazy, but she was right. He’s alive, and he’s here again.” Adam clutched Dean’s hand. “Do you remember how many we lost last time?” 

“Get a hold of yourself,” Sam said, wandering closer to the photos, his finger trailing the profile and face of each one. He unpinned one from the board, and turned it over to look at the back, before putting it in his pocket. “We don’t know for sure if he’s here. The only one who’s seen him is Tracy, and she claims to have been seeing him for the past seven years.” 

“What if she’s right?” Adam said.

Sam turned back to him, hands in his brown coat pockets. “Then it means it’s taken him seven years to make a move, and that you’ve lived in safety all this time with him at your doorstep.” 

“That’s hardly comforting,” Dean said.

Adam pushed Dean way. “That’s rich from someone who left.”

“Was sent away,” Dean shouted. 

Sam slipped between the two of them, hands out against their chest, but his fingers rested lightly along Dean’s sternum--a comforting, warm presence that reminded him to stop, to step back, and to breathe.

“Look--do you think we’re dealing with a ghost? The seven years would make sense if it were a ghost.” Sam’s voice was all business. “Seven is a pretty significant number.”

Dean shook his head. “There are pictures of him in different towns from all over the world. Ghosts are tethered to locations.”

“Or objects. Or people,” Sam put in. “What if the sheriff visited all these places? What if she brought him with her. What if she knew, and she didn’t know how to get rid of him?”

Dean’s voice caught in his throat, air in his lungs, pain in his heart. The sheriff had been to Los Angeles, and she hadn’t visited him? “No, it doesn’t make sense.” He cleared his voice as they all looked at him. “I mean, she’s a hunter. If she was haunted with him, she’d either dig up his body and salt and burn it, or she’d find the object and salt and burn that.”

“Unless she’s the tether,” Sam said.

A stillness descended upon them. “No.” 

Adam echoed Dean. “No.” 

And they both shook their head. “No. Can’t be.”

Sam shrugged. “Could be. Look, I like the sheriff just as much as any of you. Hell, I love her like my own mother. Assuming my mother hadn’t abandoned me like she did,” he added, flashing a grin at them.

No one laughed.

“But it’s just something we need to consider.” 

“No, it’s not,” Dean said, already making his way back to the attic stairs. “If she’s the tether then fine. But we’re not going to salt and burn her.” 

He was on the floor, looking at the rose papered walls that he’d once called home. There were family photos of him and Sam, Jody and Mary, hell even Jody and Bobby. The ones with John in them had been taken down and replaced with sunsets and beaches -- beautiful things, Dean realized, things with life. 

He peered up at Sam’s face, curtained by the long fringe of his hair. “Even if more people die?” Sam said. His mouth had an unhappy turn to it, his eyes hard. “We’ve got to look at the bigger picture, Dean.” 

“We’ll figure something us out,” Adam said, voice mean and harsh. “We don’t even know if this is true. It’s just a theory. A hypothesis. We gotta test it.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “This isn’t science class in highschool, Adam.”

Dean paced the house, biting his lip pink. “We need to start back to the beginning. We need to dig up the grave, and work from there.”

“And why the hell,” came the Sheriff’s voice, “are you talking about digging up a grave from my cemetery?”

Sheriff Jody Mills stood in the doorway, her face pale, her hair a halo of flyways. Skin was drawn and tired, and Dean had never felt like such a piece of shit in his life.

The three boys stared at each other, then at her, until Adam, stumblingly, told them what had happened, who they’d found. About the pictures in the attic. 

“Are you going to arrest me now?” he asked, his voice faint. 

“No,” Jody said, sitting slowly down into her Lazy boy. “No I’m not, and Mrs. Dante can’t ask me to. She doesn’t run this town.” She looked at her scabbed over knuckles, and Dean contemplated on asking how’d they gotten like that, but chickened out at the last minute. “But I’m begging you, Adam--and Dean, you and Sam too--please leave this alone. I’ve got it under control.”

“People want me arrested for murder, Mom! And it’s not my fault, it’s John Winchester, and nobody believes me because they don’t know what we know. They don’t know that the dead can still kill.”

Jody looked up at him, sucking on her lip, her eyebrows puckered up not in a frown, but in something that resembled begging. “You don’t think I’m going to protect you?”

“Well, will you?” Dean asked. “Or are you just going to send him away too?”

“I will,” Jody said. “And I will do whatever I need to do. Be gone with you. I’m not making dinner tonight because I need to meet with Tessa. We still need to talk about Father Gil.” 

Sam eyes shifted. “He’s dead?”

“Of course he’s dead,” Jody said. “Everybody’s dead.”

The boys filed out of the house, loitering in the driveway as they looked back out towards the living room, as if the sheriff would come running after them, telling them everything, telling them the truth--but the doorway remained undarkened, and only the wind shuffled at the screen door.

“She was lying,” Adam said, scuffing his boot against the driveway. “She was lying to our faces!”

“Well, there’s only one thing to do with lies.” Sam turned to them both. “Dig them up.”

They found shovels in the in the shed. They tumbled into Sam’s car and they drove to the area where John was buried--some place that was not considered consecrated land, someplace far from a church, deep in the woods.

They dug until dirt streaked their skin, washing with sweat, turning to mud. They dug until their shoulders ached, and they were strong boys, too, and still they dug until their shovel heads hit rotten hood, and then they chopped that rotting coffin to bits to reveal a plain pine box, that laid empty six feet under the ground.

John Winchester--whoever or whatever he was--was gone.

~*~

Jody drove back to the inn in her jeep after closing her eyes for thirty minutes. Her brain felt calmer, a little more intuitive. Going back had been the right call. Maybe it had been a premonition, the sense, seeing as she had caught all three boys she considered her sons red handed in her affairs, raring like horses to go after John Winchester. 

But she was their mother--they’d take her word for it.

She had to believe that. 

She settled her shoulders, gripped her steering wheel a little tighter, and drove.

The first order of business was to find hard, concrete evidence. Talk to everybody who had dealings with Luke Dante, find the motive, find the weapon--or the spell--and find the murderer. Done. Just like any other day.

And for crying out loud, this was the devil they were talking about.

Someone was always wanting to kill the devil. 

Sheriff Jody Mills was too good at what she did to bypass complete suspicion from her son--she knew Adam held no love for the Dantes, knew that he’d struggled for seven years--struggled with depression, suicide, anger, rage--but that didn’t mean he was violent, and he’d never taken it out on anyone but himself, and she’d gotten him help for that when he’d been beyond her help, even though he’d never forgiven her for it.

But she didn’t need to be forgiven. She only needed to make sure her boys were safe. 

She rolled her vehicle to a stop at the front of the hotel. Scared faces peered from the windows. There were a lot of guests to speak with--and they weren’t going to interrogate themselves. 

She chose to speak with Lilith first. She played the role of the Widow Dante to perfection, even draping a shawl of black silk over her shoulders as she dabbed her eyes with her hankie.

“Can you think of anyone else who might want to hurt your husband?” Jody said, by rote. 

The charade skipped, like a smudged disk, and something dangerous and harsh flashed in her face. “Perhaps--you know, Castiel and I--we had our affair, on the side.” 

Jody remained stoic. Funny. It seemed difficult to believe that someone so proud as the devil would have his consort consort with someone else.

“Castiel--” her voice broke here -- “he’s such a proud man. It’s difficult to be under someone like Luke. And -- he’d fantasize things.” She bit her lip -- “he’d fantasize about things that he wanted to do to him, did them to me instead.” She brought her hands to her throat. “He frightened me, sometimes.”

Jody rolled her eyes. Never trust Lilith with something as small and frail as one’s ego, she thought. She’d destroy it, just as soon as she’d destroyed any countless lives for her slightest whim.

“I get the picture,” Jody said. “Anything else?”

“Besides your son’s sacrificial goat?” Lilith smiled. “Nothing, Sheriff Mills.”

Meg corroborated what Lilith had said earlier--not that that meant much to Jody. She knew that Lilith ruled the roost of this demon henhouse, and they’d do whatever was asked of them. But why they’d want her putting pressure on that poor schmuck Cas when there were bigger fish to fry-- 

Unless Cas was actually a big fish.

For the first time, she was uncertain. She thumbed through her notes, the information she’d gathered and collected against the players. She had no idea who Cas was. As far as she could tell--he’d been no one.

She’d assumed he was human--Meg’s patsy, Meg’s boy-toy, and nothing more.

She studied Cas now--his scruffy features, smaller now without his tan trench coat, which was bloody and folded in an evidence bag.

“I’ve made no secret of the tensions between my--stepfather and myself.” Cas looked at his hands, folded loosely in his lap. “He was difficult and overbearing to work with. Domineering.” 

“So you fucked his wife? To what? Humiliate him?” Jody decided to play with the charade they had so carefully crafted seven years ago. What did he know? Did he know too little, just enough, or too much?

His clear eyes looked at her. “That was part of it. The other part was because it was fun.” He leaned back, trying to look suave and cool, Jody imagined, but somewhat failing--perhaps because he was being interrogated for murder. “I like sex, Sheriff Mills. I proposition sex to those who catch my eye for whatever reason, and if they say yes, we have a grand old time.” His eyes narrowed as he leaned forward again, elbows on his knees. “I propositioned your son.”

“Which one,” Jody said, voice a thin blade. Adam was barely eighteen.

Cas smiled, briefly. “Dean. Turned me down though.”

“He’s a smart boy,” Jody said. 

Cas tilted his head at her, his eyebrows frowning. “Is he?”

Cold rage hit heavy in her abdomen, but she flipped her notebook. She would be professional. She would do her job. “Did Meg know about your dalliances?” 

Castiel nodded. “She did. I whispered them to her as I did everything I did to her that I did to Mrs. Dante.” He smiled at her, almost sadly. “There is nothing here, Sheriff. The only person who did not know of our little--affair--was Mr. Dante himself. And he died in ignorance.”

Jody closed her eyes. Palms over her brows. “Well don’t leave town anytime soon.” Not that he could, with the missing boats--but if--but if he wasn’t human, there was no telling what he could do and she’d rather put this Cas in the spotlight than have it find its way back to her son--even if she was playing right into their hands.

She could always bluff her way out of any problem. She’d never had trouble before, not since she was emptying men’s wallets at the poker tables. 

It was night when she was finished. And it felt as if she was no closer to solving the riddle than before. She’d already called and requested that Pamela and Missouri attempt to locate the source of the spell--but that took time--and it felt like time that she did not have, to save herself, to save her boys, to save the whole damn island. 

~*~

Cas walked briskly along the stone path, his numb fingers fumbling with his phone. That was the first indication that something was wrong.

Angels don’t get numb. They don’t get cold.

They’re not weak like humans are weak.

Yet here he was, shivering, and not just from the cold which was even worse.

He couldn’t go to Michael. Michael and Cas had not been communicating for the past five years. Michael would have said that Cas went rogue, Cas would have said that Michael went rogue, but it didn’t matter because nobody cared. This charade would have carried on until the end of days and now-- 

Now, Lucifer was gone because someone had thrown up the book, ripped out the pages, and said ces la vi.

Why would Cas reach out to someone who was probably on the murderer’s next list? You didn’t take out Lucifer without taking out Michael.

Two sides, same coins.

The world would be out of balance if one survived while the other did not.

Cas scrubbed his hand through his jaw, feeling mortal and weak and alone. His steps slowed as he thought about that again, forced himself to confront that image of himself.

He shuddered and felt mildly sick.

But he knew another angel--a had-been angel--who would have known what that felt, by her own hand no less, not by some spell that sucked the supernatural strength from his bones, siphoned his grace, and bent his knees to humanity. 

Anna would understand. Anna could--offer some suggestions.

He stopped then, looked up towards the sky. “I know you can hear me,” he said. “You might not be an angel, hollow without your grace, but prayer--prayer is something you can hear.” He let his phone slide back into his pocket.

He’d been relying on it too long, masquerading around as a human.

“Anna--listen to me.” He swallowed, licked his lips, and thought about his next words carefully. “I think that the demons think we’re behind the attack. We as in angels. So I guess we’re not a we anymore. They can’t go after Michael directly without risking Raphael’s wrath--and with no Lucifer to protect them I shouldn’t wonder that they’re pissing themselves scared--so I think they’re gunning for me as a show of force, to remind anyone who’s still watching that they’re still to be reckoned with, Lucifer or no.” 

He wondered if the spell would affect Anna’s ability to hear prayers. He hoped not--but nobody had prayed to him in a long time. Not even the moaned Oh, Cas, or the half gasped oh god, yes, please, Cas  that fell from his lovers’ lips were prayers anymore.

“Anna--” he said, his mouth open--”Anna, please--don’t make me beg--”

A harpoon slid through his chest cavity with a soft splat, a sploosh of blood, mucous, and bone fountaining from his abdomen as he sank to his knees, quite dead, even for an angel.

The wind blew the ash marks of his wings away like dust as his killer shouldered his corpse, entrails and something else, something strange, something not quite of this world, streamed behind like ribbons.


	8. Rendezvous

Anna’s eyes drifted open in the dusk. She was on a cot in the back room of the Roadhouse, because that jerk Sam still wouldn’t let her sleep in their swanky house that could practically serve as a hotel even though she and Ruby were friends. 

Why had she woken? Was it because Lucifer was dead, and it was all starting to go wrong, just like she knew it would when she saw Casey swinging to and fro from the stairs even if she didn’t know how exactly because she was still scrapping the pieces together.

She closed her eyes against that, buried her head under the pillow, finger clutching at the feather, the tiny quills piercing through the cotton into her palm, little bites of reality, grounding her here and now instead of yesterday.

But no--it hadn’t been a nightmare of Lucifer or a memory of Casey that had woken her--it had been--a voice.

Not, not just a voice.

She pulled herself from the cot and paced to the bar so that she could pour herself a beer and leave a handful of change for Ellen to find in the morning.

A prayer.

She swallowed the alcohol, let it burn into a soft buzz down her throat. Nobody had prayed to her in so long that she had forgotten what it felt like. She wished she could remember why this person was praying to her, what they had wanted of her.

Not that she had much to grant now.

Now that she was human.

She flexed her hand against her thigh.

She still didn’t remember much from when she was an angel. A cold dread seeped down her spine and she thought that maybe that was for the best.

Knees pressed to her chest, she curled up on an empty barstool, and waited for dawn to rise. 

Cas would know what to do. She’d go to him.

Surely people still prayed to Castiel, angel of Thursday.

But when she finally pulled on her boots and stomped through the pre-dawn light through the grey fog, she could not find him. Nobody had seen him. Not Dean, not Sam. Not Meg, not Ruby.

Not Lilith. 

They smiled blandly at her, all except Meg who did look sharp, who did confide that she had not heard from all night or all day, and that neither had Lilith. He had not had a dalliance. He was supposed to have been with her. 

“I’ll find him,” Anna said. 

Meg looked out the window. “I hope we don’t find him too late. What a tragedy.”

Anna pulled at her red hair. “Don’t worry. He’s still an angel, isn’t he? Don’t they say that only angels can kill another angel?”

Meg’s face turned a pallid marble. “Of course,” she said carefully, her voice stiff. “It must be very hard to kill an angel. I would know. Of course, I would know.”

Anna’s eyes watched Meg as she beat a hasty escape. She was hiding something. Meg was dangerous, sure, and she was loyal to the death, but if you wanted a liar--well, you wanted Ruby, not Meg. 

She looked for Ruby now, lingering with Lilith. A knife was belted to her hip.

It was then that Anna noticed the shift. The charade was being placed on hold, but it would still believable. Of course they would carry weapons to defend themselves there was a dangerous murderer on the loose.

They were all in terrible danger.

Maybe Cas was in terrible danger, right now.

Maybe he had been in terrible danger. 

She slid away from them, careful and still. She couldn’t look afraid, she couldn’t look directly at the weapons she saw now, almost in plain sight.

She had nearly made it around some trees before she was ambushed by Charlie, the second redhead, and Dean, and someone else she didn’t know--someone who looked as if she’d had a rumble with the woods and come out on top, even with her torn daisy dukes. 

“Heard you were looking for Cas,” Dean said.

“Well, I did ask you if you’d seen him.” Anna’s eyes shifted to the newcomer. “Who’s this?” 

“Charlie’s friend,” Dean said. “Wanna make the introductions?”

Charlie beamed, her eyes giddy. “I know that I should technically be really scared right now and believe me I am but I am also just so--terrified--and thrilled--because I thought I was going to die from boredom but I am probably actually going to be murdered. This is really, really great--” her voice dwindled down, her head turned from a vigorous nod into a dejected shaking. 

The woman beside her slid her hands in her, kissed her on her cheek. “You’re experiencing an adrenaline rush.” She turned back to Anna, held out her free hand. “I’m Madison, a friend of Charlie’s. I’m good at--well, I’m good at finding lost people. Got a nose for it, I guess you could say. Though it’s not as good as it used to be, with the spell and all. But I think I can still help.”

“Oh my god, really?” Anna’s body went limp with relief. Dean had called up Charlie who had called up Madison. She needed to tell him, in the spirit of friendship and bygone days, she needed to tell him. She just still didn’t know how. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Well, I need less words. More of something that Cas owned so that I a can catch a scent.”

Anna smiled. “You’re a werewolf. I should have guessed.” 

Madison stood with her feet shoulder width apart, settling into her root, her balance, her arms hanging loose at her sides but ready for anything. “Hope that’s not gonna be a problem for anyone. Don’t forget that there’s a truce on this island, and that I am here to help.” Then she smiled. “Hell, if Gordon can grant me a kiss of peace, then surely you can give me the shadow of a chance, Dean Winchester.”

Dean laughed, slapping his thigh. “Gordon? Gordon Walker? I’d eat my hat if I had one.” 

“Things change,” Madison said. “Have you?” 

They met each others’ eyes. His voice came out low, soft. “I have.”

They went to Castiel’s rooms together, and Madison sniffed his white shirts, his slacks, his novelty tees. “I thought angels would smell better,” she said. “Less human.” 

“I guess you hang around in a meat suit long enough,” Dean said, “you start to smell like one.” 

“I guess so,” Anna echoed, voice hollow. “Do you have the scent?”

Madison nodded. “Let’s go.”

They followed his trail, followed it out the door, until they bumped into Sam. “Oh hey,” he said, looking at the part of them. “Still looking for Cas?” 

Anna nodded. “You wanna join us, or are you just gonna say you don’t want to see my face again?”

Sam’s eyes flashed to Dean. “Yeah,” he said. “Anything for a friend.”

So they continued with Sam in tow, and even Victor joined them until Madison, sniffing deeply, paused along the walking path. “There’s blood here,” she said softly. “He was attacked.” 

Anna closed her eyes. Wondered if she should already prepare for them to find his corpse left to rot in the forest.

“Do you smell the one who attacked him?” 

Madison shook her head. “There are so many people--but--” and her eyes seemed to gleam wolf-yellow for a moment, just for a moment-- “I don’t smell a stranger. I recognize all the ones collected here, drifting in the wind.”

“Does that mean what I think it means?” Charlie said, her voice shuddering and high in her throat. 

Dean and Sam exchanged looks with each other, pinched looks, distressed. “Do you smell anyone who might be--John Winchester? I know it’s been a while but--” 

“I would know him,” Madison said, voice harsh. “He’s not here. Whoever attacked Cas--it was not John Winchester.”

“Oh god,” Anna said. Her head spun, and the earth shifted beneath her feet. She’d never had dizzy spells as an angel, and now-- 

“It’s okay,” Dean said, clutching her in his arms. “It’s okay. There’s lots of reasons that Madison might not smell him. Maybe the wind wasn’t right.” 

“Maybe.” Madison’s voice was doubtful though.

Victor crouched on the ground, looking for clues, looking for something firm and concrete to mark as a crime scene, Anna imagined, but there was nothing to be found. “We can’t ignore the fact that one of the wedding guests might be behind all this.” He looked up at Dean. “I know none of us want to think it but--with so many of us gone, so many of us gone without anybody even realizing it beyond a wonder of where they might be--this isn’t a stranger’s work.”

“It’s personal,” Madison said. “Someone really didn’t like your friend.”

“Like that’s anything new,” Meg said, coming from the shadows, arms held tight around her chest, leather jacket looking mean in the sun. “You think you can find Clarence?”

Anna shook her head, ignoring Meg. “He wasn’t my friend. He was my kind-of brother. I need him. I need him for answers.”

Madison pushed her way through the forest. “Then let’s go find him.”

They found him soon enough. There was the stump of a ruined tree, caught in the middle of the stream. Around the trunk were thick ropes--sailor ropes.

Blood eddied in the water, and Anna gritted her teeth as she stepped into it. Sam walked onwards, his stare fixed on the stump, but Dean grabbed her hand. “Are you sure?” he whispered. 

“I’m sure.”

They edged their way carefully around the stump, until they saw the thing tied up and pinned there by a harpoon, a thing that wore Castiel’s face, but instead of arms or legs or anything recognizably human, there were tentacles, and what looked like a secondary head slipping from the area of space and time around his shoulders, something with lantern lights made for the deep waters or for space, something with sharp, needle-edged teeth, something with a ring of eyes setting on the head like a goddamn crown.

A curved ram’s horn jutted from behind the human visage, like some kind of halo, but this one dripped with blood and Anna, stunned unable to stop, paced further around and then she saw it--the goat head with its horns, throat slit.

Slime, smelling like sewage, dripped from his appendages. They hung limp in the water, like dead squid.

Someone was sick in the water--it was Victor, it was Dean, it was Madison, it was her, just barely holding it back.

Meg looked up at him, at the shirt that had been torn by the harpoon, at the gaping hole, still oozing fluids around the hard wood. “Good job, Clarence. The only time I get to see your true form is when you’re dead, you insufferable, contrary--” her voice was high, thin as she kicked viciously at the water, stirring up the gore that had settled to the bottom like silt. 

Dean was shaking his head. “I don’t understand--I don’t understand--”

“Stop it,” Madison gasped. “Stop it. I can barely breathe as it is.”

“Clarence is dead,” Meg shouted. Then she composed herself. “Clarence is dead.” She eyed the corpse. “We need to bring him down. The angels will be wanting him back. Maybe. If he hadn’t made every single one of them into his enemies.”

As Sam pushed by Dean to help Meg, who had already climbed up the stump to fumble with the harpoon, he said, just barely in Dean’s ear, “Aren’t you glad you said no to that?”

Anna’s eyes jerked up--Dean had no expression on his face, just one of shock, his mouth open, eyes glazed. He hadn’t known Castiel was an angel, and maybe he hadn’t heard what Sam had said--but she did. He must have noticed how her eyes zeroed in on her and he winked.

Just trying to lighten the mood, she supposed, something Sam could do. Maybe running with Ruby had made tragedy an opportunity to spin a joke because it was too horrible otherwise.

What’s black and white and red all over, Ruby had joked when she’d seen Abaddon’s carnage of a nunnery. What gets bigger the more you take away, Ruby had joked with Alastair as she surveyed souls on the rack. What has hands but can’t clap, Ruby had joked when they dug up Abaddon’s mutilated body, limbs chopped off at the joints, when they’d finally found her out of time, and Anna had seen it all because she had watched as an angel, watched and watched and watched.  

But why did it need to be lightened. 

Her kind-of brother was dead. 

~*~

Dean stared at the corpse hung before him, mouth open, stomach heaving, barely even hearing the words that Sam muttered in his ear as he went in for a closer look. “I don’t understand,” he said. “I don’t understand.” 

Anna grasped his hand, tugging him away from the scene. “I need to tell you something. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t know how, and you told me whenever I was ready.” She stopped back on firmer ground, the long green weeds brushing against their pants legs. “Castiel was an angel.” 

“But angels aren’t real--”

“Just like demons aren’t real? You should know, Sam’s marrying one.”

Dean rocked back against his heels. “What?” That--that couldn’t be right. Demons didn’t get married. Demons weren’t human anymore.

She covered her mouth with her palms. “You didn’t know?” Her gaze shifted from his eyes to a point somewhere behind him. “I guess that means you didn’t know that Luke Dante was actually Lucifer?”

“So somebody went down to Georgia and killed the devil,” Dean whispered, voice numb. “No wonder--”

“Forget about the demons.” Anna took his hand, clung to it. “This is about us--about you and me.” She took a shuddering breath. “Because I’m an angel too. Was an angel. I didn’t know until after our separate ways, or else I would have told you before we--you know.” She covered her eyes with her hands, and splashed her way back toward the distant shore, Dean trailing after. “Everything is just so screwed up, and so confusing. I just found out that long before I was born, before I was human, Cas and I served together, and he was a dick but seeing him like this--” Anna shook her head. “I just--I needed to tell you.” 

Dean looked at Anna, tried to imagine her as a human, and failing. “You were an angel?”

“I fell. Tore out my grace--” she took a glowing vial slung from a thin chain on her neck, that she usually kept slipped under her shirt, and showed him -- “fell to earth as a human baby.” She smiled thinly. “I guess it was so traumatic that I blocked most of it out--but then one day--I just remembered. I heard someone pray. And it came back, all of it. The--” her voice broke and she turned away from her, arms clung tight around her chest.

“So I’m guessing that the tentacles are an angel thing,” Dean said.

She laughed, weakly, then hid her face behind the palms of her hands. 

Dean took her shoulders, folded her against him and she clung to him, her thin arms tight around his waist, his back, fingers clutching his shirt through his thick jacket.

“I was just afraid--that you wouldn’t see me as me anymore. That I’d be an angel and part of this whole mess instead of somebody that you used to know.”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb, tucking her stray hairs, caught in the dried salt of her tears, back behind her ear. “I think we’re all part of it now. Is it okay if I kiss you?” he asked.

She brought her mouth to his, and they kissed like the first time they had met, like the time Anna had seen him rip into a monster, killing it bloody in the back alleys of Los Angeles, like when they said goodbye--they kissed like that, tender, soft, accepting, forgiving, even when it hurt.

Then he gripped the hair at the nape of her neck, not enough to pull, not enough to hurt, just enough to dip her head towards him, so that he could seal one more kiss upon her brow.

She opened her lips, and Dean saw what she was about to say, but he couldn’t hear it because if she said it--then that would be too honest to bear, because she’d seen him, those dark corners of himself that he still wasn’t able to see clear, to see through properly, and it was so strange that somebody would want to look that closely at someone like him, and not see what he could do for them, but just him, and to reach out--not to use, but to love and--and it hurt. So he put his thumb against her lips, and shook his head.

“Okay,” she said. She smoothed her fingers through the cowlick that corkscrewed along the nape of his neck. “Okay.”

“Well that’s respectable,” Meg called out, heaving Cas’s sagging shoulders in her hand as she dragged the corpse to the bank. “Kissing at a murder scene.” She shook her hair out of her face. “I guess Cas would actually be into that though--if he were fucking alive.”

Anna flushed, and bit her lip guiltily.

“Shut up, Meg,” Sam said, hovering close, his bulking shoulders held awkward. “We’ll need to get the sheriff out there. She’ll want to know there’s been another death on the island.”

Dean closed his eyes, thought about John Winchester, thought about how much he missed his apartment back home, and his soft warm bed, and the days where he could go for weeks at a time without seeing a single corpse--either by his own hand, or someone else.

“I need to tell you more,” Anna whispered, “but not here--not when other people are around. Meet me tonight--late, after everyone’s gone to bed--in the lobby by the fire place, okay? Sam still hasn’t let me have a room yet.” She sent a baleful glare in his direction.

He nodded. “I’ll be there.”

~*~ 

Maggie barged into Ed’s room when she heard the news about that Cas guy--how he was dead, how Luke Dante was dead, how that Garth dude was dead, how Spruce was missing, how Harry was missing. She felt dizzy as she tore through Ed’s luggage, looking for anything about where he might be, where Harry might be, where Spruce might be.

Anything at all that would indicate they were still alive.

The sheriff had fed her a line of bullshit about how was she sure they were missing, about whether they had any habit of disappearing for a couple of days which, yes, they did, because they were ghostfacers but she couldn’t tell the sheriff that they hunted ghosts--she’d never be taken seriously and nothing would be done about it and they’d be missing and possibly killed because there was a serial killer on the loose or hadn’t she fucking heard.

But maybe she could find proof here, maybe she could--her hands froze as she pulled out her camera bag, the one that Ed had lied about accidentally letting slip overboard--the one he swore he’d lost forever.

The one she held in her hands right now, at this very moment.

The one that was filled with something not her camera because she had her camera in her own bedroom. Slowly, she dragged the zipper and stared at the crumpled bundles of bills--nothing small time like ones or fives--but fifty dollar bills, hundred dollar bills, bound together and she had never seen so much money, had never---

“What the hell are you doing?” Ed said, and he barreled into her from behind, the money falling from her hands to the floor, but she stood firm and solid because she was a roller derby babe and could take more than the push that Ed just gave her. “What have I said about looking through my crap!”

Maggie blinked, stunned. “You’re telling me that all this money is yours? Since when?”

“Since I found it on a boat and everyone tried to tell me I couldn’t take it!” Ed shot back, then stopped, as if he couldn’t quite believe those words had come out of his mouth.

Maggie had gone very still. “Is this why Harry and Spruce are gone? Did they have something to do with this money? Did you kill them for it, so that what, you could get a bigger piece of the pie, the whole pot, all in?”

“No,” Ed said. “God who do you think I am?”

“I think you’re a man with a bagful of money that isn’t his in his room. And I think that people do things they regret for money. And that people get hurt.” Maggie would never have described her brother as dangerous--mostly harmless, at worst--but now, looking at him, there was something that made her afraid, and she took a step back away from him and the way he clutched the bag to his chest, away from the spilled bills on the floor--just away. “You killed them for it.”

“I didn’t, I swear to god--” Ed said, his voice tearful. “Maggie, you have to believe me.”

“I need to tell the sheriff about this,” Maggie said, her voice distant. “That must be why you had it tucked away because you knew it was wrong, and you did it anyway.” She eyed him, up and down. “I always thought you were a loser, I just didn’t know would disgust me like this.”

She turned away from him, striding towards the door, wondering if she should pick up the money or if it was already incriminating since it was in her bag.

Ed ran after her, fingers scrabbling against her arm even though she shook him off. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Let me make this right,” he begged. “Don’t go to the sheriff. Let me go. I can take responsibility--I swear I won’t let you down.” 

She wasn’t her brother’s keeper. She could take his word. Maybe. “You have to promise you’re going to do it today, and that you didn’t kill Spruce or Harry.”

He sighed in relief, a slick sweat gleaming over his cheeks. “I promise, Mags, I promise--you won’t regret it, I promise.”

“I better not,” she said, “because I won’t forgive you if you screw everybody over this. I won’t. And I won’t even be your adopted sister. I’ll just be the person that shares your last name. And then I’m gonna change that when I get back!” 

Ed swallowed, visibly, and she shut the door in her face. She put her white earbuds in and plugged in her pandora station, turning up the volume as loud as she could stand it as she flopped on her bed.

How could this happen. How could this be happening?

~*~

The trouble was was that Ed needed his sister to still be his sister, and he also needed the money.

And he needed his best friend.

Unfortunately, his best friend was dead and hap-hazardly planted under what Ed hoped was six feet of earth. He struck out into the forest, into the general direction that he thought Harry had gone towards. It was towards the sheriff station--and surely he would know the place.

Not because a grave was obvious or anything because if it was, then Ed was really, really screwed, but because he’d recognize the place his best friend died, his best friend bled out, wouldn’t he?

Surely he would.

But as he tramped through the woods, twigs scraping his hands and dirt falling into the holes of his boots, every other part of the forest looked the same as any other. Peaceful and green, with a flash of grey-brown deer bounding through the trees, tails white flags of surrender as they ran and ran.

He was no predator.

He was no killer.

They needn’t be afraid.

But he searched and searched, and he could not find Harry’s grave. All he wanted to do was stand beside it, ask his friend what he should do, what he would want him to do in life now that he was dead, and he couldn’t because he couldn’t find the goddamn spot.

He fell to his knees, and wept over a tree because he could not find Harry’s grave to cry over that instead.

He imagined that Harry would have a good laugh about it, call him a loser affectionately maybe--but--it wasn’t right. 

Unmarked graves were reserved for the worst of the worst--the forgotten, the disgraced. 

Even John Winchester had a grave. He’d seen it.

Bet nobody mourned him--people flocked to his grave to gawk, to murmur, look at that man who killed those people in those hideous ways. 

Yet he couldn’t even mourn Harry. Harry was lost to the ground, just as he was lost to Ed. 

Ed climbed wearily to his feet and found his way back to path. He couldn’t turn the money in--he couldn’t afford to go to jail or be pinned with Harry’s death or whoever it was had been in the boat. 

But he could get rid of the evidence, and keep his hands clean from blood money.

He knew that the inn had a furnace in their basement, a raring thing that kept the air and water warm. 

Once he had made it back, once everyone had gone to their own rooms, too subdued by the latest murder to mingle, to ask questions, he crept down the stairs, money clutched to his chest. He winced when the stairs creaked, but nobody was there to heal. And, once he’d pried the door open, he put the money into the fire stack by stack.

He figured it would take a long time but that was okay. He had all the time in the world. To be successful, to mourn, to just be.

He never even heard the sound of someone creeping behind him. He didn’t hear the pipe slamming into his skull, breaking the bone. He didn’t die instantly, but his brain swelled, and hemorrhaged blood. 

He collapsed against the hot walls of the furnace--flesh burned the air, and he did not register the pain--not even when his assailant chopped him to pieces while he yet lived, and fed him to the fire until there was nothing left but bone and ash.

~*~

Dean sought Sam out, who stood beside the bar, drinking whiskey. He didn’t slide in the stool next to him, just stood behind him, arms folded. Words heavy and old and wrong on his tongue. “We need to talk,” he said finally.

A beat. “About what?”

“About you and Ruby. Anna told me that Ruby was a demon.”

Sam shook his head, small laughter sliding from his lips, from his smirk. “God, she has a big mouth.”

Dean put his hand on Sam’s shoulder, clutching at his jacket. “A demon, Sam. You can’t trust demons--you know what a demon’s done here.”

Sam looked up at him this time, eyes soft. “She’s not like other demons, Dean.” He put his hand on Dean’s shoulder, squeezing like he’d done so many times when they’d been younger, and his hand slid over his chest, over his heart.

Dean sucked in a breath, and held very still. Sam’s hand was so warm.

“Gotta trust me, Dean,” Sam said, his voice almost a whisper. “I’ve always trusted you--even when you were sent away, when you never even wrote--I trusted you. Can’t you return the favor?”

It was hard to breathe, and Dean sucked on his lips. “I don’t know, Sam, I don’t know.” They’d been apart for so long. How could Sam be romantically involved with a demon. He knew what they did. He knew what they lived for.

“I’m the same person you’ve always know, Dean.” Sam took Dean’s other hand in his, thumbs tracing the swell of knuckles.

Dean bowed his head, eyes closed.

“Trust me,” Sam said, his voice high-pitched, begging, almost. “Please trust me, Dean. I know what I’m doing. You’ll see.”

Dean squared his shoulders, his eyes clear. “Tell me.”

But Sam just shook his head. “I can’t, Dean, you know I can’t.”

“Why not?” he demanded, jerking his hand from Sam’s, taking a step back so that there was distance between them.

“Because I’m doing it to protect you--not just you-you but the whole island, the whole world.” Sam’s face was carved in lines of desperation.

Dean recognized that look--had recognized it often enough from seeing it staring back at him from a mirror. “Sam--you don’t need to protect me. You don’t need to go it alone.”

Sam smiled at him then, like he was a saint. “I’m not alone. You’re here with me. Just--be my friend again, Dean, be like a brother to me, and trust me.”

Dean licked his lip, stared at the ground under his boots. “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay.”

Sam pushed himself from his stool with a scrape of wood against wood, and folded his arms around Dean. “Thank you,” he whispered in the shell of his ear, his breath hot and wet. “Thank you.”

Dean waited a few seconds, before pulling out of Sam’s hug. “If you’re in trouble, Sam--”

“--I know,” Sam interjected, quick. Then he looked down at the silver watch on his laugh, and huffed out a sharp burst of laughter. “Don’t you need to go see Anna or something?”

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He was almost dreading whatever Anna had to tell him. “Yeah I guess so.” He turned to go, then paused. “Hey, Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you seen Benny anywhere?” Dean held very still, his heart barely beating, his lungs holding onto the oxygen until there was none left, strangely reluctant to breathe because if he breathed, then this last moment would end, and Sam would say the thing that he feared the most.

“That guy with the beard?” Sam shook his head. “Nope, can’t say that I have. Maybe he’s at Ellen’s.”

“Maybe,” Dean said, even though he knew this could not be true, knew that Benny had given up drink and other vices.

He refused to think about it.

If anything, Benny was hunting in the woods. That was all. Everyone said that this was personal, but Benny didn’t grow up on the island, wasn’t entangled with the demon elite or the angels or god knew what else was going on here.

He was a stranger. How could it possibly be personal?

He was going to be fine. They’d yell and then they’d have sweet, gentle makeup sex, and everything was going to be fine. 

~*~

Anna jittered her foot as she perched on the couch. She kept looking at the clock. The minutes ticked by and still Dean did not show up. He was probably delayed--he was terrible about telling people later or that he really needed to go. 

But finally, the floor creaked behind her and she was already on her feet. “Dean--” she began to say before a chloroform soaked rag covered her nose and her mouth, and she dropped like a stone to the floor. Carefully, her assailant stepped over her body and left a note on the end table addressed to Dean.

She had been dragged away minutes before Dean reached the lobby. He looked around, and sat in almost the same spot that Anna had been sitting in moments before his eye fell on the note. He opened it, and read, _Don’t wait up for me. We’ll speak tomorrow_.

 Dean frowned, then slipped the note in his pocket. He looked around the room, but there was no sign of struggle. No blood. Someone would have heard something, surely.

He wandered the halls and the grounds, looking for anything suspicious.

And found nothing.

 


	9. Thread

When Maggie couldn’t find her brother or the money, she knew that he’d bailed for real. Or else he had been killed for the money, and his corpse was just another one in the long line of dead on the island.

So much for a wedding. Guilt pricked her when she knew that Ed would have called it the Red Wedding redux1. A hot shower did nothing to wash the guilt away and, in nothing but her towel, steam still fogging the mirrors, she looked at her distorted, blurred reflection. 

Was she brave? Or was she scared? Or was she relieved that Ed was no longer her problem?

Except that Ed was always her problem, always getting into trouble, always making an ass out of himself, always hurting her feelings with his adopted sister crap. She squeezed her eyes shut, fingers clenching the porcelain sink until her nails went bloodless.

Her hair hung in a short curtain around her face--too long for a pixie cut. No one could even see the tattoo she’d put there, and that had been the point. But she needed to see it now. She flexed her muscles in the mirror, remembering how eventually she hadn’t been able to fit her cute shirts, too tight they had become around the arms and the muscles she’d nurtured. 

In a drawer, she found a pair of razors and, without even pausing to think about it, she bent her head over the sink and began to shave off her lengths of hair, such as they were. Her scalp had grown tender again, and the warm air kissed her sensitive skin, rippling shivers down her spine as she rubbed her palm over her smooth pate, tender to the touch, the bright blue and pink star, the jammer star, painted clear on her skin, and now everyone could see: don’t fuck around with this roller derby babe, okay? 

Then she got dressed, pulling on her pink-black plaid shirt and her green cargo pants and combat boots.

She went to the police, reported what she knew, then she went to the newspaper. The woman behind the counter, her hair a black, haloed sun against the grey morning light, looked up as the bell dinged.

Maggie’s breath caught because god she was beautiful, and then guilt suffused her skin, just like a blush, and Maggie hoped that Cassie Robinson (because that’s what her name card said) would not see it for what it was.

“What can I do for you?” Cassie asked. 

Maggie explained what she needed. Space for Have You Seen Mes--and she showed the pictures of Ed, Harry, and Spruce that she had snapped on her cell phone. Her fingers tapped their faces as she named them, her voice thickening as she realized that she had not seen them for days, and that no one had seen that as odd, how Ed had explained them away, until he himself had gone and there was no one to explain his disappearance away.

And then her gaze slid to the side so that Cassie would not see the way she was about to cry, and she saw the papers, the papers about John Winchester, and the images of the bodies, and she knew that she would never see these boys again whom she regarded almost as her brother (Spruce mostly by association instead of affiliation because wow what an asshole) because they’d been killed, just like John Winchester’s victims had been killed, and how was she supposed to explain this to their parents? 

Cassie’s hand covered hers. Her skin was cold, damp, but Maggie leaned into it anyways. “Everybody says they’re fine,” she said. “But I don’t think they are.”

“They might not be,” Cassie said. “But I’ll do my best to find out what happened, to find out the truth.” She smiled at her then. “It’s kind of my job.” 

Maggie bit her lip and thought what the hell. “I can tell you what I know. Maybe over something warm? Coffee, hot chocolate?” She wondered if this island was big enough for a cafe. Then she felt guilty. She could do all that without asking Cassie on some kind of date when her brother’s life was in the balance. 

“You haven’t lived until you’ve had a cup of Harvelle coffee,” Cassie said. She called out to her dad, and asked him to cover the front for her, and she slung her purse over her shoulder.

They walked to the station, and Maggie told her everything they knew and, while their drinks cooled, they watched the footage that Ed had caught on Maggie’s camera, a copy that Maggie had saved for herself while giving the original to the Sheriff. 

Cassie watched in silence, biting her lips, scribbling notes. “I’ll do what I can,” she said. She asked Maggie to record what she could around the area, anything suspicious, and Maggie could only think they were Lois and Clark, bad-ass reporter babes, but she tried to keep her enthusiasm leashed in, to keep it cool. But even after they had finished discussing John Winchester and the murders and the disappearances, Cassie didn’t rise, and instead complimented Maggie on the tattoo displayed on the side of her skull.

“Do you roller derby?” Maggie asked.

Cassie shook her head. “I can’t say I have. In fact, I’ve not even really heard of it before.”

Maggie settled in closer and opened up video files she’d kept on her phone. “Well, do I have a sport to show you.” And perhaps, Maggie may or may not have flushed with delight that Cassie seemed to enthuse over the sport, even going so far as to ask when her next match was.

And it was easy, to forget, that people were dying on this island, that her family may have died, and that tomorrow was not so sure, when she exchanged phone numbers and dates with Cassie.

Maybe, she thought as she escorted Cassie back to the newspaper office, it actually was a date. She smiled softly at the thought before the guilt began to haunt her.

~*~ 

Dean could not find Anna, just like he could not find Benny, who had never gone anywhere during the interim of their relationship without letting him know first--and face to face too, notes be damned. Her note had said they would talk tomorrow but she was gone, disappeared. He should have not taken the note at face value. It’s easy to fake a note, easy when Dean realized he didn’t even know how Anna’s handwriting usually looked like.

He should have looked harder before turning in last night.

He kicked savagely at the wall, focusing on the dull ache to pierce through the lightening flashed cloud of panic that blinded him. She had been staying at the Roadhouse--he’d check there first.

Ellen and Jo had not seen her. 

That was alright. 

Someone on this island had seen her, and he was determined to find out who. His hunter skills, the ones that had been instinctive, the ones that he’d slowly shed from himself like an old, too-small coat, began to show themselves.

He supposed one couldn’t actually forget something he’d been raised to do since childhood. If someone couldn’t forget to ride a bike, how could he forget to zero in on the kill.

He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep, steadying breath, then walked from the Roadhouse back to the Dante Residence. Dawn rains had washed the dirt, so there were no tracks to see, but he knew she wouldn’t stray from the path--at least, he hoped she wouldn’t, not when so many people were missing or dying.

He’d only gone a handful of paces before Mike rounded the corner, fists in his pockets, whistling a merry tune. “Have you seen Anna?” Dean called out to him. “Young woman. Red hair. A little on the short side.” Which was useless because, at six foot, it was like everyone was on the short side to him. 

“Yeah, I know who she is,” Mike said, slowly. 

That stopped Dean. “You do?”

“I know of her,” he amended, almost too quickly before shaking his head. “But no, I haven’t seen her. Why?”

Dean had drawn closer now, and they stood apart--not quite close enough to be friendly. Just the right amount of awkwardness. Of please don’t make this harder than it needs to be. But looking at Mike now, looking at the way Mike was looking at him, that kind of stare in his eyes that was of pure adoration even though he had dawn dew slicked to his skin, even though he hadn’t shaved, even though he’d chewed his lips raw--it made Dean slide his eyes away, that someone could look at him like that, because how could he ever return the favor? What was he supposed to do in return? What did someone like that want, and could he even give it? What if he couldn’t look at Mike back like that, no matter how hard he tried? It was so confusing.

But what? What did Mike want?

And what if Dean couldn’t give it to him? And why did that thought make him feel bad and small and riddled with guilt because it should be okay, he knew it was okay for them to not work out romantically or even as friends and yet---

“You okay?” Mike said, his voice easy, doing the thing that Dean had hoped he wouldn’t do even though nothing wrong had ever happened, which was to step closer, to close the gap between them from awkward kind of know each other to friends, and then another step taking them even closer than that. “You never look at me.”

“You just--” Dean fumbled for words. He’d left without saying goodbye. He had no right to feel uncomfortable, to wish to take another step back.

“You just what?” Mike said, and his hand was on Dean’s now. “This is a judgement free zone, you know.”

But Dean knew it wasn’t--knew because of how angry Mike had been when Dean had left. And maybe he should have said goodbye, but he hadn’t shown up, like not saying goodbye had meant something. 

Dean knew it had meant something.

But it was Mike who thought that was what was happening, even though it wasn’t, even though Dean didn’t know what he wanted to happen with them because Mike was okay, but he wasn’t--Dean closed his eyes. 

They weren’t teenagers anymore. 

They weren’t kids.

Dean had lost so much and Mike hadn’t--Mike hadn’t.

Maybe it was wrong for Dean to associate the pain of losing his mom--his biological mom, Mary--and Bobby and even, in some ways, Jody (he remembered the room in the attic and shuddered) and Mike had--not. Mike had no family that Dean knew of, and maybe Mike had lost that family in a way that he hadn’t shared with Dean, but when Dean saw Mike, he saw John Winchester because--

because Mike had saved Dean from John. He had. Had driven by and smashed John’s head with a baseball bat, distracting him so that Dean could get away when John had stalked upon his body, scuttling back in the brush sad and small and scared, and Dean didn’t know what to do with that.

Didn’t know what Mike would expect of him if he knew that he’d saved Dean in that moment because he was sure that he hadn’t been visible from the road, that Mike hadn’t realized in that moment that he had not been attacking John Winchester, but saving Dean.

What if Mike wanted something in return for that?

That’s what Dad had been like. One good turn deserves another, he’d whispered in his drunken lilt--Dean pressed against a wall or his chair, scared of what Dad would ask of him next. Remember, he’d say, lips to a bottle, that time I saved you from the rugaru? And this is what I get in return?

Dean’s insides went cold. 

“I don’t know,” Dean said, when he realized that he couldn’t answer Mike’s questions. He was being a jerk, he knew.

“You want help looking for her?” Mike said. “I can help you do that.”

Dean wanted to say no but he couldn’t. Not now. Not when Anna’s life was at stake--if it wasn’t already lost. 

“Thank you,” Dean said. 

The worst part of it was--Dean meant it. It was nice not to be alone, he thought, as Mike strode beside him. To carry a weight on your shoulders, by yourself.

John would have said that Dean should have been strong enough to do it alone, to man up and get her done--but Dean didn’t want to be strong enough.

He had been strong, in his seven years of exile. Strong to not come back, strong to return, and each one was the wrong one, each person had something to say--you shouldn’t have come back, you should have come back sooner--sometimes with the same breath.

What did they want from him? His presence, his absence? He’d give it to them.

But nothing, it felt like, was enough.

Jody’s voice rang in his head--what are you doing here? 

He didn’t know. He wished he did.

~*~

They were drinking tea on the porch, Gordon and Tamara. They drank in silence, though Gordon was flipping through his leather bound journal, and Tamara was thinking about Isaac.

She closed her eyes, and breathed the bright free air.

What would she do next, now that Isaac was gone? Stay here with all these memories? Go out until she died by some demon’s hand too?

“Hey guys,” a voice said, and she jerked her head, hand already falling for her carved strip of Palo Santo when her eyes fell on someone in daisy dukes and a plaid shirt.

But the woman paused, her hands raised, her smile big and wide as her eyes fell on Gordon, who just rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“I come in peace,” she said. “Gordon knows all about it.”

Gordon nodded. “What do you want, Madison?”

“I come bearing news.” She bit her lip.

“What kind of news?” Gordon said, stowing his leather bound journal away.

Tamara sat straighter in her chair, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt.

“The bad kind,” Madison said. “Or the good kind, I guess, depending on your point of view. We got two more deaths. One, Luke Dante--and two, some guy named Cas who looked human but once he died--” her hands spread as far as she could, and she made a funny noise with her mouth -- “tentacles everywhere. Word is, he was an angel.”

“Angel?” Tamara said. “There are angels here?”

Madison shrugged. “Yeah.” She turned her attention towards Gordon, her face somber. “And Gordon,” she said, her voice soft. “You were right about Luke Dante.”

“What do you mean?”

“I heard Anna tell Dean that Luke Dante was Lucifer.” She smiled a little, something a little self-satisfied. “They forgot I have a wolf’s hearing now.”

“Wait,” Tamara said, holding out her palm. “You’re saying someone killed the devil.” She and Gordon exchanged a glance. “How is that even possible?”

Madison breathed out. “I can’t decide if we should thank whoever did this or if we should wonder who’s next because I don’t think this person is finished.”

“It wasn’t the angels who did it?” Gordon said, frowning. “That would make the most sense.”

“Well, someone’s killing the angels too. And who do you think next after the devils and the angels are all dead.”

Gordon stood, stretching so that his shirt rode up before he lowered his arms, twitching the hem of his shirt back down again. “Well, it sounds like we got work to do.” He held his hand out to Tamara. “Care to join us?”

Tamara hesitated only for a moment before she put her hand in Gordon’s palm.

~*~

They couldn’t find Anna. Dean rounded up the guests he could find -- Sam, Ruby, Meg, Sarah, Bela, Kevin, Victor, Charlie -- and he asked them if they’d seen her.

Ruby and Meg exchanged a glance, but they shook their head while the others chorused no and Bela, answered, “Who?” 

“She’s missing,” Dean tried to explain. “And with everything that’s going on--”

Ruby cut in, voice smooth and cool like snake skin. “I’m sure she’s fine.”

Dean narrowed his eyes at her, afraid to call her out because he didn’t know how much these people knew, and he didn’t want to cause a panic. And besides, Sam was already looking at him with minute shake of the head. “Sure you’d say that,” Dean settled for instead. “But none of us know for sure. In fact--” and he glanced at Michael, who nodded -- “she’s not the only one who’s missing. Benny, a friend of mine, is missing too.”

Victor stood up to stand beside Dean. “Does anyone know anyone else who’s missing?”

A girl with a shaved head, camera in her lap, raised a hand. “My brother, Ed. His best friend Harry. Their best friend Spruce.” Her voice was tight, strained. “I’ve already talked to the sheriff--and to Cassie Robinson. We were supposed to film the wedding,” she added, almost as if it was an afterthought.

He recognized her now. The girl from the boat. The one who’d been called Maggie. “I’m sorry,” Dean said.

Maggie shrugged. “So am I.”

“Anybody else who’s missing?”

Meg’s voice was leaden when she spoke. “My brother. He never showed up at all. Thought he just ditched but maybe not." 

After a moment of silence, Dean forced down the swallow that stuck in his throat. “And who’s dead?” 

The names filtered back like a stuttered role call. Father Gil. Casey. Garth. Cas. Uncle Crowley. Luke Dante.

A silence descended upon the room, a stillness, and a coldness. So many dead, so many missing, and maybe-probably dead.

And then Kevin opened his mouth, voice faint. “And not to alarm anybody, but the ferries are still out of commission too. We can’t leave the island."

“Still no cell reception,” Charlie added. “It was always patchy but now it’s just like never there. Like it’s dead.” She gasped, hand to her mouth. “Poor choice of words, I’m sorry.”

People stirred then, began to shout at each other accusations, explanations, demands until Victor put his fingers in his mouth and whistled shrilly. “We need to do something, but first we need to keep calm and keep our heads cool.”

Dean shook his head, hands raised in something that might have looked like supplication or surrender. “We’ve already talked to the sheriff.”

“Sounds like what you need is a hunt,” said a soft voice.

Dean turned to see Gordon standing in the doorway, Madison lounging against the walls, hands in her pockets, fists visible under the tattered hem of her shorts, ratty hair bands dangling from her wrists. Tamara stood beside them, but she wasn’t looking at their group, but at the walls, her hands following the grain of the wood.

“We’re not like that--not anymore,” Dean said, wondering who on earth he meant with we because what did that even mean, what was he to these people, and what were they to him? Some of them like Victor and Kevin and Charlie and Sam were family, but the others? “We need to do this right. Do this smart.”

“This is too big for your mother,” Gordon said. “Or do you think that the apocalypse is a one-man job?”

Mike stirred beside him. “What are you going on about?”

Gordon laughed softly. “Luke Dante? Try Lucifer. But I know some of you already knew that.” Gordon looked at each one in turn, until their eyes darted away.

Dean tried to ignore the guilt that flooded his belly like nausea. He looked around the sea of shocked faces. They should have known. They deserved to know, to protect themselves.

“You can’t just kill the devil,” Sam said, protesting, for some reason holding up a charade that had crumpled a long time ago. Maybe because he was good like that—didn’t want people to be afraid, to be alarmed.

“And yet,” Gordon said, “someone has. Strange, isn’t it? That the devil could be right here, in our very home--and nobody knew. Or maybe, not enough people knew. Or maybe just the right people didn’t know.”

“That a dig at my mom?” Dean said, skin prickling. “At the Sheriff?” Had she known? If she’d known--had she let it happen? Dean needed a hot shower to wash his body, his soul, his mind--something that would clear away these cobwebs of fear and loathing so that he could think, really think about what was going on, instead of being caught up in a whirlwind of panic and fear--of loss and mourning and dread--and the frustration that he could not just walk away from these feelings, that he couldn’t just turn them off, to man up, like John had told him over and over.

Gordon said nothing, but Madison pushed herself from the wall, slipping in between the two of them. “Just an observation.”

“If the devil was here--which I doubt by the way--I’ve never believed you Gordon, you crazy old man--” Mike said, moving to stand beside Dean.

“--I’m only thirty-three--” Gordon interjected.

“But pretend for a moment that I did--what then? Where’s god in this picture?” 

Gordon smiled, thin-lipped and sad. “Where he always is. Long gone.” 

Mike gave him a surly set of his lip, but turned to the crowd around him. “And you guys believe him? Are you serious?”

Dean was surprised to see the vague nods until the girl with the shaved head raised her hand. “I’m tired of lies,” she said. “If Lucifer was masquerading as Luke--then who are the rest of you?” She eyed the Dante family. “Innocent human dupes or more of the reigning demone elite like the rumors say?" 

“Like they’d give themselves away,” Gordon said, scorn in his voice when silence met their words. “But then, Lilith always was a duplicitous one, weren’t you?”

“I should kill you where you stand,” Mrs. Dante--or Lilith apparently--hissed. “Your presumption--”

Gordon raised his hand. “Don’t embarrass yourself. We felt the spell fall into place. We know you’re vulnerable. We know that a simple knife, aimed at whatever passes muster for your heart, would do the trick. Don’t test us. And don’t try anyone else because the next death on the island--we won’t take laying down.” 

“I never thought I’d see the day,” Lilith said, “where I’d hear Gordon Walker advocating for a demon--because that’s who Casey and Father Gil were, you know. Demons. Like us. Like me.” 

“He wasn’t advocating for them,” Tamara said, her first words cutting through the crowd with a smooth grace. “But for Garth. He was one of ours, and he’s dead now, and if you demons had anything to do with it, anything at all--” she let the words hang, the threat unspoken. “We don’t care if it was for a greater good or for the apocalypse. You’ll pay. The sheriff has let this continue for far too long. And perhaps,” she said quietly, “she will pay as well.”

“It’s a pattern,” Charlie said suddenly. “Demons. Hunters. Angels --because Lucifer is still technically an angel. Well, was before his untimely or lately death. Guess it depends on your point of view,” she said laughing nervously, the high strained laugh she used when she wanted to cry. Then, serious once more--“All the major players have members that are being killed--or sacrificed.” Charlie’s eyes fell on Madison. “The only one who’s missing from the pattern are monsters. Madison--are any monsters missing from the island?”

Madison shook her head. “Not that I know--but a lot of us are kind of solitary. They could be missing for days and no one would know.”

“Benny was--is--a vampire,” Dean said quietly, forcing the words through his teeth. “And he’s missing.”

Sam sucked his breath in, and Gordon narrowed his eyes at him.

“This doesn’t explain anything,” Tamara said. “Who cares if there’s a pattern? The numbers don’t fit. More demons are dead than angels than hunters than monsters. That doesn’t fit. We need to take this for what it is--demons doing what they do best: bloodshed and betrayal.” 

“You don’t know anything,” Meg said. “If we betray someone it’s only because we’re loyal to someone else.”

“Exactly,” Tamara said, voice full of scorn. “Don’t even try to twist this around to make you look noble.”

Meg stepped forward, fist on her hip. “People learn, they grow. We find causes that we serve, so we can get up in the morning, and they might not always be the same cause from yesterday. If you’re that adamantly against change--”

“Shut up,” Ruby said. “Arguing about this isn’t going to stop whoever is doing this. Because the red head’s right--there is a pattern. But there’s also something personal motivation here--once we figure that out, the rest will fall into place.”

Victor stepped in, taking the floor. “I get the desire to figure this thing out right here, right now. But we need to let the police do our job. If we go poking around, we risk contaminating crime scenes. And I don’t plan on letting another douchebag go because we fucked something up.”

He looked at Dean, and nodded. Dean wondered if Victor knew that John Winchester was not in his grave that, after all the atrocities, he even escaped death. He wondered if he should tell him--but how?

How do you tell someone that?

“I can’t just not look for Anna,” Dean said quietly.

“I didn’t say we’d be sitting around with our thumbs up our asses,” Victor said. “Because I’m with Gordon on this one, buddy,” he added, comforting pat on Dean’s shoulder, to let him know it wasn’t too personal, “But I don’t trust your mom. I propose we split into groups. Dean, Mike, and I will go to the sheriff station. See if we can’t drag out some of the old fashioned radios and hit up the coast guard. The rest of you split into teams of two and search for Anna in the house proper and the grounds and the woods." 

Sarah and Bela glanced at each other, and then rose to their feet. “We can’t,” Bela began just as Sarah said, “We’ll start at the top.” They looked at each other again when Bela again opened her mouth to speak, speaker faster than Sarah. “What she means to say, is that though we do hope that Anna will be found safe and sound, it is quite time for us to leave the island. Things are getting a little too dangerous--we’re simple art collectors, she and I. We’re not adventurers. You can’t expect us to put ourselves in danger this way.”

Dean nodded. He got that. Hell, he’d wanted to leave ages ago himself. And as far as they knew, these women weren’t friends with each other. But still--bit of a low blow since they kind of needed all hands on deck right now.

Sarah must have thought so too because she tugged Bela a little to the side. “I don’t want to die here either, but we can’t just leave these people. We can’t just leave someone because we’re afraid. We need to help them.”

Bela’s smile turned frail. “And what’s in it for us beyond getting in the target sites of the person who killed the devil? It’s suicide.”

“I don’t think any of us has long for this world,” Lilith said. “Particularly you, Bela Talbot.”

“I don’t know,” Bela said, poise somewhat returned, “I’m just full of surprises.” 

Lilith’s voice was dry when she replied. “I’m sure.”

Dean was about to say that they were wasting time, that they needed to go now because Anna might be dead, but he never got a chance before the landline began to trill, the bell rattling the receiver, rattling their nerves, as they stared at it--at the first phone call they had witnessed on the island since they had come.

Dean answered it first. “Hello?”

“If anyone leaves the island,” a deep voice rasped, “Anna Milton will die. And you better find her fast--she’s not gonna be able to breathe for much longer.”

Dean never even had a chance to protest before the receiver clicked in his ear. “We can’t leave the island, guys.” He tried to deepen his voice so that it would not shake so badly. “If we do, Anna’s gonna die. He’s gonna kill her. It sounds like she’s alive right now--” the words stuck in his throat, and he coughed -- “but I don’t know how long.” His voice trailed off, and he tried to catch his breath. 

“Whether they run or not,” Gordon said, “this killer will kill her anyways.”

Victor shot a glare at Gordon. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean we don’t do everything we can to up her chance of survival.”

Gordon shrugged. “I’m not saying I’m not going to look for her but I’m also saying that we cannot ask these people to risk their lives. They’d probably just make things worse.” He eyed the civilians of the group--and Dean hated that he’d started to think of them like that. “Best to leave it to the professionals I think. If you want to leave, no one will stop you.” 

“But your own guilty conscience maybe,” Charlie interjected. “We’ve got a responsibility, a quest--we can’t just--” 

Madison shook her head, moved to stand beside her, hands on her shoulders once more guiding her to a sitting position. “This isn’t like some fantasy game--or tv show--or novel series. You could die, like any of those other people have died, and I don’t want that to happen.”

“I can’t be selfish,” Charlie said. “I can’t.”

“Saving yourself isn’t selfish,” Gordon said. “It’s not your fault if Anna dies whether you stay or not. Ultimately it was the killer who kidnapped her. Responsibility must be taken. If you want to leave, leave.”

Bela tugged Sarah’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Bela--” Sarah said. “Don’t--don’t do this.” 

“I have three months,” Bela said. “I don’t want to die. And like the man said. Let the professionals do it. We’re thieves. Not cops. Not hunters.” 

Sarah was silent for a moment, then she nodded and took Bela’s hand. “Okay. Okay you win.”

“Well you should know now that I always get my way,” Bela said with a sly smile. 

“I’m coming with you,” Kevin said. “I’m done with this island, and I shouldn’t have come back.”

Dean nodded, glad that Kevin was getting away. This was never his scene, and it’d been so long since it had been his that he’d forgotten--he shook his head.

He hadn’t missed this at all. The anticipation, the edge, the fear. The inability to know what places were safe, which people were safe.

“You can take my boat, the Deanna,” Mike said, throwing him his keys. “Take good care of her.” 

“Did you seriously name your boat after me?” Dean asked out of the corner of his mouth.

Mike shrugged. “Why can’t you just be flattered? It’s a compliment.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Can we focus please.”

“You’re the one that brought it up, Dean,” Mike said around a smile. “I thought you always knew the regard I had for you.”

Charlie and Maggie agreed to search the house while Dean, Mike, Victor, Gordon, and Sam went to the police station. Madison and Tamara declared they’d search the surrounding woods, starting with the hanging tree. Lilith drank wine while Ruby and Meg went off to the side, whispering in something that didn’t quite sound like English as they disappeared out the doors. Dean wondered why, wondered if they knew something, but Ruby and Anna were friends.

“We have to hurry,” Dean said.

“And we’re already out the door,” Sam said. “C’mon, I’m driving.”

~*~

As Gordon pushed his way through the sheriff’s office, he gagged on the stench of blood and gore that met the group. The deputies were dead, ripped apart almost. Throats torn out, belly’s torn open with what looked like blunt butter knives. He frowned and shook his head.

“Radio’s busted,” Dean said, holding what remained of it. “We’re screwed.”

Gordon shook his head minutely. “We’re always screwed, Dean. Some of us are just a little bit less screwed.”

“My mom never had it for you, Gordon,” Dean protested, but Gordon held up his hand.

He really wasn’t in the mood to hear it, especially since there was a rattling and banging loud enough to give anyone a headache there in the backroom where Sheriff Mills kept the prisoners in their cells.

Maybe this one knew what had happened.

He strode to the back, gently using his gun to nudge the door open, to give him a better glimpse of the room before he put himself into a bullet’s way or--judging from these wounds--a knife.

“Hey,” the prisoner shouted, and it sounded like a woman’s from the cadence and pitch of it, “hey--get your ass over here and open these doors before it comes back.” 

Gordon stepped over the line of salt--which probably wouldn’t do much good anymore because of the spell--and stopped in front of the cell with the one occupant--a woman with red hair that had seen better days and better washes, grime coating the strands and her skin, her lipstick smudged around her mouth.

There was a devil’s trap on the bottom of the cage--but then, there were devil traps on every cell. Could be a demon, could not be a demon. 

The person who had cast that spell had rendered them almost powerless in determining friend and foe or taking them out--and Gordon wasn’t sure he’d be able to forgive them when the witch was found. 

In fact, he was quite certain he would not.

“Are you a demon?” he asked.

The woman smiled, biting her lip with her teeth. “Would it matter if I was?” 

By this time, Dean and Victor had joined them. “Abbie?” Dean asked. “How could anyone kill the entire place but leave you alive?”

“Because they have refined taste, obviously,” Abbie said, “ a taste for bloodshed.”

“Is that supposed to convince us to let you out?” Gordon said.

Abbie smiled, laughing. “The enemy of my enemy is my friend, as they say.” 

Victor rolled his eyes. “We need to leave soon. I don’t want to be a sitting duck here if the killer returns.”

“Azazel won’t be back,” Abbie said. “He did what he came here to do.” She pressed herself against the bars, her hand reaching out for Gordon. “Let me out, and I’ll tear him apart limb from limb, body from soul. Information and a promise--I think that’s plenty in exchange for my release pending on good behavior.” She licked her lips fast, quick. “What do you think?” 

“I think you’re lying scum,” Dean said. “You don’t know how not to hurt people." 

Abbie huffed out a breath. “You’re still angry with me? That’s truly adorable, Dean.”

“Enough of this,” Gordon said. He turned to Dean. “Is she a demon?”

Dean paled, looked distressed. “I don’t know.” He remembered her in the slaughter house, with Adam. But there’d been no black eyes, no confirmation--just hints. “Probably.”

“If I say I’m not, will you let me out?” Abbie said, her smile failing to be winning behind her lipstick.

“Just let her out,” Victor said. “If this is a demon, then they’ll want the person who killed Lucifer dead just as much as we do, which makes them a friend. A slimy, untrustworthy friend perhaps, but right now, I think we need all the help we can get.”

Gordon rolled his eyes, but Abbie dropped some of the act. “Lucifer is dead?” 

So, definitely a demon. “Lucifer is dead,” she repeated softly. 

Her lips twitched, hands clenching into half-formed fists that looked more like claws than fingers. A shrill scream filled their ears before she flung herself against the bars, her teeth gnashing against her flesh, tearing the skin so that blood dripped down her skin. “Let. Me. Out.”

“I’ll go find the keys,” Dean said, voice quiet.

The second after Dean disappeared to find the jailer, Gordon leaned close to Abbie, whispered in her ear, “If you so much as even look at us wrong, then I will make sure you will regret it.”

“I’d like to see you try,” Abbie said. “And then I’d like you to see what I’ll do to you. Wouldn’t you like that, Dean?”

Sam snarled at her. “You shut your mouth. No one’s interested in your petty threats.”

It truly was miracle and wonders, Gordon thought as he watched Dean unlock the cell, how he found himself in these strange positions. First, he had aligned himself with a monster and now he was allowing a demon to be released from its cage.

Truly, these were desperate times that called for desperate measures.

He hated it, with every fiber of his being.

Black and white--good and bad. Monster and human. That was the job description, and now it was just falling apart into shades of grey and maybes.

~*~

Meanwhile, while the others were at the jail and the others were seeking the inn, Sheriff Jody was creating a summoning circle, one of the more complicated ones, one that would allow her to call for the reigning powers of hell, heaven, and purgatory.

She hoped Lucifer’s absence wouldn’t affect it to badly.

After pouring herself a glass of brandy, she sat down in her old rocking chair, sipping it slowly as she waited. It didn’t take long before the sky clouded over, before lightning flashed in the air and Raphael stood before her, her black hair twisted into a bun, her brown hands folded neatly in front of her, looking every part the business woman.

The second circle flashed brightly too, and Eve stood there also, dark and nude and beautiful.

“I understand why you’ve called,” Raphael said. “Things have not gone according to plan.”

“I have to say,” Eve interjected, “that I am very happy with this turn of events. No apocalypse means life for me and mine. Which is why I don’t understand your unhappiness.” 

Raphael rolled her eyes. “The apocalypse was our father’s bidding. Lucifer is dead, which was the goal, but he was murdered instead of being slain on the field of battle. It was dishonorable death, and the world will suffer for it.”

Jody stood up, offering a glass to Raphael and Eve. “That’s not the point.”

“You’re right, it isn’t,” Raphael said, holding the glass but making no effort to drink from it. “You betrayed this pact when you sent Dean away from Michael. This delayed our plans, allowing this to happen instead. Now we have rogue demons, rogue monsters, and rogue angels. It’s chaos, and disaster.”

“You never said explicitly that Dean had to stay, only that Michael needed the chance to get him to say yes to being his vessel,” Jody said. “I sent him away -- but not before Michael had the chance. He had plenty of chances, and then Dean was gone. No fault, no foul.”

Eve laughed, already downing her drink. “But a delightful use of loopholes.”

“Our bargain is at an end,” Raphael said. “You will not call me again. This killing? Is not of our doing. We have nothing further to discuss. Our agreement is terminated.”

“Wait.” Jody sank to her knees, in an attitude of prayer. “Please help us. This is beyond me.”

Raphael shook her head. “I will do nothing for you. This--” and she gestured broadly -- “is the result of free will, the same free will you begged me to consider when we made our bargain to constrain the apocalypse to this small island, to allow the major players to play their roles with a limited amount of bloodshed as possible. You cannot have your cake and eat it too.”

Raphael disappeared in a flash of lightening, and Eve too.

So it was over, as she had long wished for it to be over--and yet--it felt as if it was still just beginning.

Jody swallowed around the lump in her throat, and wondered what she was to do now.

The phone rang, and when she answered it, the voice on the other end told her exactly what to do. 

“Come meet me at the inn in one hour, or Anna Milton will die.”

This she could do. Saving someone she could do.

She straightened her sheriff star before leaving, buffing the surface of it with the cuff of her sleeve. What a joke. What a joke played on her.

~*~

Maggie pressed herself to the wall, her hands over her face, the camera she had brought dropped forgotten to her feet. It had just been an idea, that’s all, just some idea she’d tossed to Charlie and Charlie had run with it just like she knew she would because she wanted adventure and Maggie just wanted out and if the only way to get out was to find Anna then she was totally down with that. 

But when they’d decided to search the basement (rumored to have secret tunnels from the inhibition era) -- she hadn’t actually considered that they would be the ones to find anything, especially not the crap they had found--and even peering at the horrors through a camera lens had done nothing to diminish them—there was no separation between their two eyes.

It had started with the blood in the boiler room, where they had found charred bones in the furnace. She’d scooped a skull from the ash, from the charcoal, and held it, while Charlie had stood behind her, wordless and trembling, and they’d wondered--they’d wondered, who it was? If it was Anna or not--if it was already too late for her--if it was one of their other missing friends. 

If it had been Ed or Harry or Spruce.

She had dropped the skull, and it’d shattered into pieces. She shouldn’t have done that. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Now what would the police have nothing to go off it. How could she have been so clumsy, so scared as to drop it? 

Charlie told her it was okay, that it didn’t matter, that even if it was broken they could still put it together like humpty dumpty okay it was okay because she’d seen it on Bones which was a procedural tv show and Maggie had snapped back that she knew what Bones was.

It hadn’t made her feel better.

But then they’d found the tunnels, the tunnels used to smuggle and to hide and apparently to murder, and they’d wandered until it felt like they’d never be found again, and they were easy pickings down here, weren’t they, so easy, so lost, so alone and afraid as they clung to each other under the dripping, smelly ceilings, checking each door for Anna just in case, no matter how likely it was.

Ruby and Meg said they were going to check the grounds, the graveyard out back because yeah ironic right murder somebody in their own fucking grave and that was probably right, right? Which was, of course, why Maggie and Charlie had both opted out, choosing instead to search the place she probably wouldn’t be because it’d be safer yet they were still doing something right because what if they were wrong? What if Anna was still in the house?

Madison would find them, Charlie was saying, we won’t be lost because Madison and Tamara will find her.

Before or after they were brutally murdered?

They’d pushed into a door, just because it was half open and because they were still supposedly looking for Anna and then--and then--

They found her.

But she was already dead, swinging by the neck by scarlet rope2.

Charlie dropped the flashlight, and the glass face shattered. Maggie almost dropped the camera, but remembered to raise it to her eyes, to see Anna swing round and round through the small, cyclops eye that shouldn’t made it farther away, but still she noticed that her neck wasn’t broken, and that it must have taken her a long time to die, gasping for air, toes scrabbling for the stool that was just out of reach.

“We should cut her down,” Maggie said, her voice thick. “We should--”

Charlie patted herself down. “I don’t have a knife.”

Neither did Maggie.

That was really thoughtless of them.

“She might be alive,” Charlie breathed. “We don’t know when that asshole set her swinging.” She dashed to Anna’s body, heaved it up by her legs so that the red cord no longer cut into her neck.

Maggie kicked at the stool so that she could climb up on Charlie’s shoulder, so they could reach the knot that hung from the roof. It was thick, and her fingers clumsy as she worked at it. She slipped, and her nail bent backwards, and she cried out as blood began to ooze from the bed, making the cord even slippier. “It’s too tight,” she said. Her lips tasted of salt. She ran her tongue over her teeth as she realized she needed something sharp. “The kitchen,” she said as she slid down Charlie’s back, who grunted in pain. ‘I’ll be right back.”

She set the camera down carefully so she could run as fast as she can. She ran like she was skating, like she had to go round and round, the fastest jammer in the pack. Air burned in her lungs. Her heart skidded.

At the end of every corner, she saw Anna hanging by the throat from a red cord, and she pumped her limbs faster. How long could the brain last without oxygen? She didn’t know, but there angels and demons, maybe there were miracles too.

She chose a blade with a serrated edge, the first one she found, and then bolted back again. Charlie was still holding Anna up, the muscles in her arm shivering and trembling as Maggie put the knife between her teeth and scrambled up her back, balance wavering on her shoulders as she began to saw at the rope.

“Almost there,” she whispered as the last strands began to pull. “Get ready--!”

The rope split and the redistribution of weight caused Charlie to lose her balance, and they all tumbled together to the floor.

Maggie lay stunned after her head cracked against the cement, and she blinked her eyes rapidly even as she forced herself to get up, to drag Anna from off Charlie, and to stretch her out on the floor.

She tried to remember CPR. How fast was she supposed to do it?

Her hands trembled in clenched fists above where she thought the heart was. How hard?

What if she broke a rib?

Then she forced herself to just push down against Anna’s sternum because she’d taken these classes a dozen times before and sure she’d only ever practiced on dummies but she couldn’t lose her head, not now, not when it mattered.

She remembered to tilt Anna’s head back when she pushed air into her lungs.

Compress, compress, compress.

Breathe, breathe, breathe.

Compress, compress, compress.

C’mon. You can do it. C’mon.

Her arms were growing tired, but she couldn’t stop, she couldn’t be weak.

“Maggie--” and Charlie’s voice trembled. “Maggie, we were too late--”

Maggie shook her head. “No it’s not. We have to save her.”

She kept going until her arms gave out, until she collapsed onto the corpse, sobs hiccoughing in her lungs, until Charlie was pulling her away.

Nothing was ever going to be alright again. 

At their feet, lens cracked on the floor, the camera’s recording light still blipped red, an all-seeing eye that missed nothing.

~*~

Night almost made the docks look fearful, but Kevin knew better. Darkness meant shadows, meant places for people to hide. He kept his eyes peeled for any snap of a twig or scuffling footstep against the dark, but he only heard the others behind them.

It was supposed to be safe on the boat and soon, once they found Mike’s boat, it would be better.

Kevin hung onto that fact with both hands and his teeth as they wandered the docks looking for wherever the fuck Mike parked his boat. 

Why had no one thought to ask? Why hadn’t he thought to ask? Say, dude, where’s your boat?

“I can’t do this,” Sarah said, stopping on the dock. 

Bela rolled her eyes, and Kevin did too. “We’ve talked about this. It’s not our fault--” 

“But I can’t risk that,” Sarah said. “I can’t. Don’t you understand that?”

“I understand that they’ll die, no matter what,” Kevin said, “just like last time. You weren’t here last time, so I don’t think you’ll understand and that’s okay because I don’t expect you to. But there’s nothing we can do. Like even Sheriff Mills thought she’d killed John Winchester slash Azazel and look--he’s back again or else it’s a copycat or something just as bad, just as terrible, and it’ll never stop. I won’t go back to my death, I barely made it away the first time.” 

“No one’s asking you to,” Sarah said. “But I’m not going.”

As she turned back, Kevin refused to feel guilty--he had to be there for his mom, he had to be there for his girlfriend, and that meant staying alive and he knew his mom would understand.

But she’d understand what he did no matter what it was he did.

His breath scorched his lungs, that familiar too fast, too shallow feel he got on the verge of a panic attack. He tried to do his Sudoku, but he couldn’t because Bela was running after Sarah, yelling about how she didn’t need to be a hero, when he saw a shadow move in the dark.

“Guys,” he said, but they didn’t hear him. 

He dashed up to them, stepping in between them and whisper-hissed, “You need to shut up, now." 

“What are you scared of?” Bela asked, suddenly all serious, all business as she looked around them. “Is someone out there?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Who could it be?” Sarah hugged herself against the evening chill. “We’re all accounted for--aren’t we?”

“It could be anybody, could be the killer,” Kevin said. “We need to find the boat.”

A scream pierced the mist, and they jumped in their skins. Kevin, almost against his will, found himself running towards it to what? Help? Come across another dead body?

He heard Bela and Sarah behind him and then they turned the corner and--

\--and they tripped over a body in the dark.

Bodies, in the dark, he amended when he saw that there were two. One of them was Adam, his throat ripped out, the blood washing his neck red.

The other--a decapitated vampire, fangs still bared, in the head that had tumbled a few paces away.

Poor kid must have done it in his dying breath.

He wiped his face, turning his face from the carnage. This couldn’t be happening, jesus christ, this couldn’t be happening.

Voices came dim and distant from the fog, and Kevin thought he heard Dean. He couldn’t let him find his brother like this, not after everything. He shrugged out of his jacket and covered Adam’s face with it.

Taking his queue, Sarah did the same with the head of the decapitated vamp.

“Over here,” Kevin shouted, once he’d made sure that Sarah was finished. “We’re over here.”

It only took them a few seconds for the party that had gone to the sheriff’s station to come into sight. “We heard screams coming back,” Dean said. “We thought--”

His eyes fell on the jacket-covered corpses. “Who?”

“Dean,” Kevin said, but Dean was already jerking the jackets off their faces even though Sam was saying, “Dean, maybe you shouldn’t--”

Dean’s breath came out in a light gasp, and he covered his eyes with his hands. His body shook.

“Looks like a vamp got him,” Victor said. 

“Benny wouldn’t,” Dean said. “Hadn’t eaten on humans for years.”

Sam coughed gently behind Dean, hand rubbing soothing circles into his shoulders. “Everybody falls off the wagon. It’s not their fault, but it happens.”

“Not Benny!” Dean said, jerking away from Sam. 

“What’s so special about this Benny?” Mike said, emerging from the shadows. “What makes him different from any other vampire that you yourself have killed?” 

“Benny was different,” Dean insisted. “He wouldn’t--he wouldn’t have. Especially not my brother.” 

“He may not have known who he was,” Sam said, his voice sounding so reasonable as Kevin listened to them, saw the way that Dean kneeled beside the corpses, the way that Michael and Sam were arranged around him, standing above him, over him. 

Gordon and Victor exchanged a glance before Gordon crouched down between the two bodies. “Dean’s right,” he said. “Or, at least, you’re right that it wasn’t this particular vamp who killed your brother. Adam’s wounds are fresh but this vamp has been dead since...well, at least yesterday.”

“Someone wanted me to think that Benny killed Adam,” Dean said, his voice slow. “That he had betrayed me.” 

“Sick bastard,” Victor said, pulling Dean away.

Kevin replaced the jackets. 

“So what now?” Kevin said, standing to his feet, rubbing his palms. He’d been careful not to get blood on them, but he felt dirty all the same.

“We find out the truth,” Dean said, his voice hard. “Find out who did this, then hunt them down, and kill them." 

Victor and Gordon nodded. “We should check back in with the people at the house--unless you still want to leave?”

“Boat’s just right over there,” Mike added, tearing his gaze away from Dean for the first time.

Oh. So that’s where it was. They’d gone right past it, too scared to see straight, too scared to think straight. Typical, Kevin guessed. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I need to make sure this thing is dead before I go home. I don’t want to bring it back with me.” He didn’t want to keep looking over his shoulder. This thing, whatever it was, was a hunter, targeting anybody and whoever it took a fancy to. Maybe he was targeted, maybe he wasn’t. But he couldn’t take that chance. Couldn’t take a chance that this predator would come sniffing him out--and everyone else he loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Game of Thrones
> 
> 2: Anna as Rahab [[x](http://warpfactornope.tumblr.com/post/10136488827/how-anna-milton-groks-and-is-secretly-a-t-a-r-d-i-s)]


	10. Orphan

Dean, already dazed from Benny’s death even though he shouldn’t be, even though he’d told himself this was what had happened, listened in stunned silence as somebody told him about Anna. They hadn’t found her in time. And she was dead now, just like Adam. He blinked his eyes.

He needed to grieve, but the hairs on his neck stood high and he couldn’t, he couldn’t crawl into bed now and cry because there was still danger, because there was still people who needed to be saved, and that is what his father had taught him and it still bowled him over that he needed saving from him, even before he was possessed by the demon Azazel with the yellow eyes.

He was twenty-two years old, for god’s sakes, and he was still haunted by the ghosts and demons that had plagued him as a teenager.

But Ruby roused herself from Sam’s arms when Victor said the radio was out. “We’re saved.” 

“What do you mean, we’re saved?” Sam said. His fingers looped Ruby’s hair into twisted ponytails.

“The sheriff would have been in communication with the mainland. There’s an impending investigation. The sheriff will need to keep the mainland updated or else they’ll send backup. All we have to do is wait for them to show up, and then we can leave the island.” 

“Tuck our tails in like cowardly dogs?” Abbie sneered, popping her knuckles. “I don’t fucking think so.”

Kevin raised his head from his arms. “Hey, don’t diss Courage.”

Meg burst out laughing that she quickly silenced, but Abbie burned a glare so deep towards Kevin’s direction that he glanced away.

“Chill out,” Dean said dully.

Abbie swung on him, her fist half raised. “Don’t tell me--”

“Chill,” Gordon said.

Tamara laughed behind her. “It’s funny that you don’t want to run--my experience with demons is that they’re cowards. What have you got to be angry about anyway? You’ve been living the life up here, safe and without fear.”

Abbie’s mouth twitched but she must have taken stock of the hunter surrounding her, and she kept her lips shut. 

That was the best way Dean liked her.

“Okay--so we wait for the coast guard to show up? How long will that take them?”

Ruby leaned back against Sam’s shoulder, her eyes half closed. “I don’t know. Tomorrow at the earliest, I think. The sheriff didn’t give me a time frame.”

Dean jerked his eyes to Ruby. “You talk with her?”

Meg and Ruby smiled at each other over Sam’s broad shoulders. “We had an arrangement--or didn’t you know.” Ruby rolled her eyes, but her smile was coy, her voice reassuring. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she didn’t trust us more than you.”

“Maybe we should get some ice for that burn,” Meg said.

Tamara snorted. “I’m glad you have time for these raspberry flavored zingers during a time like this. Makes you wonder whose side you’re on.”

“We’re on our side,” Meg said. “I thought that was obvious.”

“All too clearly.” Tamara slid a knife out of her scabbard and began to whet it with a stone, the smooth slide of it rasping the room, curling Dean’s flesh, making his spine crawl.

 “I’m going for a walk,” Dean said. “I can’t take this.”

Mike moved to join him, and Sam pushed Ruby out of his lap. “You shouldn’t go alone,” they both said breathlessly.

Dean looked at them. “I’m going alone, okay? If someone jumps me, I’ll be sure to scream real loud.”

“What,” Sam said, his lips pinched over his teeth, the fine muscles twitching. “Like Adam did? Look where it got him.”

“I need to be alone,” Dean said, and with that he left them, slamming the door for emphasis. He prayed to god they’d leave him alone because he just needed some space to breath and he’d be fine, just fine, except he wouldn’t be.

He leaned against the banister that framed the veranda porch, his eyes squeezed shut against the prickling tears. He’d felt like this earlier--when Bobby and his mother had been taken, before the sheriff had taken him and treated him as her own. But that hadn’t been unexpected, the whole town had joked that Jody Mills was his second mother.

There’d been even rumors that Jody and Mary had been--lovers--and he’d always wondered if that had been why John had gone after Mary, but had never had the courage to ask Jody. Figured she’d tell him in her own time if it was true.

But that was before--before Jody’d had sent him away.

Mothers weren’t supposed to do that to their kids, biological or not, just like fathers weren’t supposed to go on murderous rampages, almost killing their entire family in the process. 

The hurt had never healed, and it pained now more than ever.

“Dean?”

He raised his head, not quite believing--

“Dean? I can see you on the porch--it’s me--it’s Jody--can you come here please?” 

“Where are you?” he said, his danger sense prickling because why did he have to go to Jody when every time on this island Jody had come to him to tell him to leave or to ask him what he was doing. 

“At the gazebo--” and this time her breath did shake and Dean knew without even thinking about it really that she was going to be the next victim.

and he couldn’t take that, not this time. 

He leaped over the banister, without wasting time looking for the stairs, and headed off at a sprint towards the gazebo. The sheriff was standing on the top of it, a thick rope around her neck. He followed the line of it--saw that it was tied to a thick limb from a nearby tree that reached out over the roof.

Dean skidded to a stop, spraying up soft mud and chunks of green grass. “Mom?” He wondered if she knew about Adam yet--wondered if he should tell her now or after he talked her off the roof. He knew he’d want to know now, but he and the sheriff were different.

“Hey baby,” she said, smiling at him for the first time since he’d been back.

And that wasn’t fair to smile now at him now, not like this.

“Mom, what are you doing?” 

She looked down at the heavy rope around her neck, at the noose man’s knot settled tight against her throat. “This isn’t what it looks like--”

“Mom,” Dean said, voice rising in fragile desperation as he took a step towards her. “What is going on?”

“I made a deal, Dean,” Jody said, her eyes misting over. “They wanted you Dean, they wanted you and Sam. So I saved you, and I sent you away--but it was already too late for Sam. They had him, already, were already grooming him for Lucifer, for him to be Lucifer’s vessel.”

Dean rocked back, brain stumbling to catch up. “But Lucifer’s dead--” 

“They broke the pact--as it is in heaven, so shall it be on earth. It’s not called an apocalypse for laughs, Dean. I wasn’t just trying to save you, and everybody I could, and that’s why I had to let Sam go. But you--you were safe. Michael hadn’t gotten you to say yes yet--” 

“Michael?” Dean frowned. He remembered how Lucifer had gone by Luke, and then-- “Mike?”

Jody nodded. “Yes, Mike. Archangel Michael, predestined to destroy Lucifer for the second and final time--and as Sam was Lucifer’s vessel so were you to be Michael’s, and then you would have fought, laying the earth to waste in their wake--human, monster, demon, angel.”

“I would have said no,” Dean said, “just like Sam.” 

“And now you never needed to be tempted,” Jody said, “because of what I did. I was protecting you. It was Azazel who raised the devil with the first sacrifice--and it was the price of releasing Azazel from the devil’s trap that let the deal be.” She laughed weakly. “It’s funny--isn’t it? We never even knew it was a demon because we all knew who your father was, what he could do, what he did do? It’s like, even possessed, it was him, and I still don’t know what to make of that--do you?”

But Dean didn’t and he couldn’t answer her and maybe he wasn’t supposed to answer because she kept on talking.

“Even Eve, mother of monsters, got on board because how could they hunt and slaughter if all the humans were gone and destroyed?” She laughed, wildly. “It should have worked, Dean, it should have worked. I did everything I could.”

“Do you know what this sacrifice is raising?” Dean said, stepping closer. “Who’s coming next? Who could be worse than Lucifer?” 

The sheriff shook her head, the tears falling even faster. “I don’t know. This wasn’t supposed to happen.” 

Dean hid his shaking hands in his pocket. “You shouldn’t have done this.”

“I was just doing what I thought was best.” 

“You should have told me--you should have told me the truth. You didn’t have to do this alone. You didn’t have to send me away like I was nothing!” 

Jody’s eyes flashed. “I was doing this for you, Dean!”

“I didn’t ask you to. I thought you had abandoned me. I thought you didn’t love me anymore, and the worst thing is, I didn’t know why. I was a just a kid when you sent me away!” 

Jody shook her head. “I’m sorry, baby, I just--I needed to keep you safe. I needed to make sure you were safe so that I could keep the promise I made to Mary.”

“You should have told me the truth,” and Dean wiped his eyes with his wrist. “I don’t understand how Michael even allowed that to happen at all if I was supposed to say yes. Kind of hard to do that when he’s here and I’m in LA.” 

“A loophole in the deal,” Jody said, and she coughed out a laugh. “And I exploited it and they couldn’t say shit because it was still fair and square.”

Dean took another step closer. “It’s not funny. You don’t treat people like that. You don’t treat people like they’re your ace in the hole.”

Jody took deep breaths. A shadow in the gazebo moved. “I’m sorry. I have no excuse other than I thought it was best, and I guess I was wrong. I hurt you, and I thought that was an acceptable sacrifice--but I should have asked you. Dean --”

Dean stepped closer. “Mom, take off the rope--” He noticed, for the first time, how awkwardly her arms were held against her torso, almost as if her hands were bound behind her back.

“Baby--” and her voice broke with tears -- “don’t look, okay? Don’t look--”

A shot rang from the gazebo, blowing the roof that Jody stood on to pieces, and she dropped like a stone, her neck snapping instantly from the pull of gravity and the pressure of the knot.

“No,” Dean sobbed, falling to his knees in the grass, clutching his stomach with his hands. “No, no, no, no.”

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder, and Dean leaned into it, thinking it was Sam. And he needed to be there for Sam too--because--it was like she had been his mom, too--

“It’s alright, my son, my good and faithful servant.”

Dean knew that voice--it felt like a bladed whisper in his ears and he jerked away, cold sweat soaking his shirt as he stumbled to his feet, eyes locked on John Winchester wearing the yellow eyes of Azazel. 

“You killed her,” he said numbly, “you killed her. Why? Why the fuck would you do that?” He found himself pummeling John’s chest, like he could do anything with his weak fists, like it’d do anything more than make him angry.

Strong arms gripped Dean’s wrists and bent him to his knees.

“Hello, Dean,” the figure said. “Surprised?”

“More like revolted--” but the insult sounded weak, even in his ears, and Dean cursed his shaking, traitorous voice. Dad had always said that real men didn’t cry.

If John or Azazel--Dean was never sure whom he was speaking to--noticed, they let it slide. But they’d probably bring it up again--unless, and the thought buzzed in his brain like it was the voice of god itself--he killed them both, killed them for real, it was possible now, because of the spell.

This was his chance.

He gripped the gun he’d tucked into the back of his jeans, the gun he’d started carrying because this island was forcing him to be a hunter again.

John Winchester tsked. “Is that any way to greet a father? Do you think your brother, my other son, would treat me in such a way?” 

“What?” Dean asked, confused. “I don’t have a brother.”

“Are you sure? Your mother separated you, you know, separated you away from me, and away from your brother. How about that, huh? Couldn’t save you both so only saved the one she could--” 

“--are you talking about Sam?”

They laughed together through John Winchester’s mouth. “Talking about Mary, Dean. Jody made her deal and Mary made hers. Guess we all know who her favorite is. Whose Jody is too. How does that make you feel, son, knowing how many people have died because of you?”

Dean ignored the last part even though it wormed into his soul. “Who is my brother?” Dean said. “If it’s Sam then tell me it’s Sam!”

“All in good time,” John said. Then he nodded and Dean felt a splitting pain in his head before he knew no more.

~*~

Sam had brought in Dean’s unconscious body and had said something about Jody swinging from the tree over the gazebo. He figured that whoever had attacked Dean had also killed Jody--maybe John himself, and his voice had been high pitched, tense.

Victor listened in silence, and then had gone to cut down Jody since Sam had just left her there like some kind of asshole. He carried her body to the basement to lay it beside Benny’s, Adam’s, and Anna’s. He sucked on his bottom lip, considering the mounds under the white sheet.

He felt numb to the sadness--he didn’t really know these people well, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care--that their loss, their brutal deaths, hadn’t hurt because nobody deserved that.

Nobody deserved to die like this--these deaths were meant to hurt not just their victims, but the living too.

Ruby was right. 

This was personal.

And he’d personally like to kill the man who did all this because he’d die first before he let John Winchester get away again.

And this time--he could kill Azazel too. Would kill him.

He pulled his gun from the side holster neatly tucked under his arm. He made sure it was loaded, checked the safety. Bullets were blessed and salted and carved with devil traps. If anything could take him down, it would be these.

Once the spell was lifted, it would be these.

He would prefer that justice take him, but he wasn’t sure he could wait that long. Wasn’t sure the system could handle someone like John Winchester as he was possessed by Azazel too. But it wasn’t right gunning someone down in the name of the law.

Looking at the row of corpses though--and these only the bodies they had recovered and not the whole of the missing persons supposed to be dead--he reckoned that John Winchester wouldn’t give him much choice.

It would be defense.

That suited Victor just fine.

~*~

Meg and Ruby sat together on the sofa, tucking their bare feet under each other’s thighs. Meg stared at Ruby’s bare shoulders, a tank top loose against her freckled skin, leather jacket folded up in her lap.

She hadn’t spoken much, not since Anna’s death.

Ruby had known Anna better than she did.

They were losing everything. Everyone.

 It was hard being a demon, Meg knew this. Ruby knew it too. They’d both been pupils under Alastair. The way he’d rip them of their bodies, then their hearts, then their souls, and made them thank him for it until they actually meant it.

It was easier, looking back on it. Being topside, forming relationships outside of Alistair (at least Castiel had been useful for that) had--had allowed her to see it what it was. It wasn’t her thanks that had come out of her voice--it had been his, it had always been his.

Her fingers curled in her purple shirt, and she looked out the window.

This was something that Alistair would do--only he would have made them do it, and he would have told them how proud he was of them, like he was their father now.

She breathed heavily, tried to clear her mind from the memories by counting the freckles on Ruby’s bare shoulders.

“You okay?” Ruby said.

Meg smiled. “Of course, I am.” 

No what’s black and white and red all over for this death, Meg realized. Did it hurt when she fell? Ruby probably used that line on Anna, especially when she found out she had been an angel. Anna wouldn’t have picked up on it--she hadn’t known when she’d first met Ruby. Maybe they had laughed about it later. Had Anna had one night with Ruby? Maybe--maybe not since Sam was so resolute she not be there. 

Ruby’s eyes flashed to black coals and burned. “That bastard is going to pay.”

“Why the red cord though?” Meg said. “It’s--extravagant.”

“He rigged a spade to a chandelier.” Ruby’s voice was tight. “It was art. Torture. Dying like that.” She glanced her gaze from Meg, looked at the ceiling. Maybe she was counting the cobwebs. “One of us. A student of Alistair.”

Meg shook her head. “No,” she said. “I don’t believe it. This is from someone who hates us, who--”

“Anna wasn’t a demon,” Ruby said. “She was an angel. She wasn’t like other angels.”

Meg laughed like she’d been stabbed. “She always said you weren’t like other demons.”

Ruby’s face tched, and Meg wished she hadn’t said anything.

“We’ll figure it out,” Meg said. “Don’t worry.” 

Ruby met Meg’s eyes again, and held them there. “I’m not worried. That’s the good thing about more bodies. More clues. And this time--” she glanced at Dean’s prone form on the couch, still out like a light. Meg didn’t blame him if he never woke up. “We have an eye witness.”

~*~

Bela and Sarah sat away from each other. “This is stupid,” Bela whispered.

“What is?” Sarah’s hand brushed up against Bela, but Bela ignored it. 

“I’m afraid.” Bela’s eyes were downcast, and she edged away from Sarah.

“That’s okay,” Sarah said. “I’m still hoping that Lilith will be the next target--aren’t you?”.

“I should be braver,” Bela said. “How am I going to survive hell if I’m not brave?”

“Bela--”

But Bela just shook her head, and Sarah fell silent.

~*~

Madison joined Gordon, who was sitting by the door, hands on his knees, back straight as he watched the window. She sat next to him, beside his boots. “I feel like our alliance isn’t bringing the unified front I was hoping for,” she said, forcing a laugh. “I thought that unity would keep us more protected, but so many have died and--” she let her hands fall open in her lap, fingers still sore from the transformation, her nails healing from the split. She missed wearing nail polish.

“That’s funny,” Gordon said in his slow, southern lilt. “I thought it was going pretty well. Haven’t felt in fear of my life once in your presence.”

“Wow,” Madison said. “In this environment of everyone being suspicious of the others I’m freaking honored.” She pushed herself against the wall, eyes closed. “But I couldn’t even find Anna in time.”

Gordon glanced down at her before reverting his gaze back to the window. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Madison smiled weakly. “Nothing, I guess.”

Gordon shifted so that he could look down again at Madison sitting on the floor. “I figure the time is coming where our alliance will be the difference between life and death. I’m trusting you with my back, Madison.” 

“And mine with yours,” Madison said. She shivered, crossing her arms over her belly. “I don’t like this spell. I feel weak. Vulnerable. Anybody could kill me now.” 

“Anybody could kill you before with a silver bullet,” Gordon said. 

“I know. But--it’s different now. I’m supernatural--and not. It’s like--being human again, but I’m a wolf too.” She held her head in her palm. “It confuses me all over again.”

Gordon looked back out the window. “Well it looks like our resident witches are hightailing up the drive, so maybe this little problem will be resolved soon.” He cast her a reassuring smile, his eyes warm and brown as she held out her hand and he helped her to her feet. 

Pamela and Missouri breezed in like they owned the place and shooed Ruby and Meg off the couch so that they could sit on it inside. 

“Go fetch them water, Ruby,” Lilith said lazily. “They look quite out of breath.”

Victor kneeled beside them. “What’s going on?”

“The spell-- we know it’s blood magic.”

“Well we already knew that,” Victor said. 

“We just need to know the components,” Ruby said, “so that we can come up with a counter spell.”

Missouri and Pamela glanced at each other. “Well, we know the components, but we can’t help you with finding a counter spell.”

Gordon bent his head to Madison. “But watch the demonic duo come up with one in a hot minute. Just watch. This might not be their doing, but it is their flavor of evil. We shouldn’t trust them.”

“I like to consider it toleration as opposed to trust,” Madison whispered back.

“If you two are quite finished,” Missouri said. “Pamela?” 

Pamela leaned forward, her elbows on her knees, her blind eyes empty of their white seer glass and bare of sunglasses. Madison had never seen her--had never seen her without the decorations to hide the mutilation she’d suffered from John Winchester’s hands. “It’s blood sacrifice in a nutshell. There’s been a deal--a truce on this island binding hunters, demons, angels, and monsters alike. We know about this--” she said, nodding at Madison and Gordon sitting together -- “and we’ve abided by it, if sometimes reluctantly. I don’t know the details of the deal but by slaying a demon, a hunter, a monster, and an angel, the spirit of the truce was compromised, allowing the entire island to become vulnerable, essentially becoming the anchor of the spell that was used to kill Lucifer. It created a hole in the supernatural veil that layers this universe--rendering the supernatural basically natural. The spell can be reversed--it actually will reverse naturally within a week or two as the balance reasserts itself.”

“We don’t have a week or two,” Lilith said. “We need to stop this thing now. We need to protect ourselves now.”

Gordon shifted beside Madison, and she steeled herself against what he was going to say next. “Why? The way I see it--as a human--the playing field has never been more even.”

“You mean,” Lilith shot back, “now that we’re easier to kill. You know the killer isn’t us, right? He’s human--that’s why he’s done this so that we’re easier to pick off one by one. You should want this spell reversed now, so that your allies will be stronger.” She looked pointedly at Madison. 

Gordon thumbed his knife. “You’re not my allies. In fact, demons have killed plenty of my friends. And I’m a hunter who hunts monsters, because they slaughtered my friends and family, and strangers’ friends and family, picking off the weak because that’s the easiest. Now that the tables are turned? I’ve no interest in giving up our advantage.”

Madison moved about a foot away from him and glowered.

Ruby and Meg rolled their eyes, and turned back towards each other. “So, to reverse the spell, more blood would need to be shed. The caster of this spell did sloppy work--or else the spell would be permanent, the victims chosen with more care and less haste. A sacrifice of the pure of heart would probably work best, combined with the appropriate prayers and--”

“Excuse me,” Victor said, “but did you just say a blood sacrifice?”

“We don’t do that,” Missouri and Pamela said together. 

“Then run along home,” Ruby said, standing and looming over them, “and let the bad girls get to work in order to save all our skins.”  

Gordon didn’t let it lie like the dead horse it was. “Your skins.”

“My skin,” Madison shot right back.

Gordon said nothing.

“Fine,” Missouri said. “I just hope you do the right thing. If you murder someone, there will be no forgiveness.” She held up her hands. “But I won’t stop you.”

“And how exactly does standing by and watching it happen absolve you?” Gordon said.

“Because I believe you’ll do the right thing.” Pamela flashed them a grin. “As it has been foretold.”

Meg showed them the door. “You haven’t been the first person to say that to us. We know there is no forgiveness from God even if he were still in the picture for people like us.”

“Allow me a moment,” Gordon said, “to cry you a river.”

Madison couldn’t help it, because even though his eyes remained dry because of course Gordon would never cry for a demon or a monster, she couldn’t help but remember the old song, as I went down to the river to pray--

Maybe they were right. Maybe there really was no salvation from this. No baptism clean enough or pure enough or sure enough. 

No hope of a comeback.

Maybe she didn’t need her wolf-strength back. Maybe it was selfish to want it back.

But she also wanted to survive--but not at the cost of someone else.

Why couldn’t there be another way to feel safe again?

~*~

“Absolutely not,” Dean said.

Ruby folded her arms over her stomach. It was easy to forget she wasn’t exactly human when goose bumps dimpled her skin. “Really? Not even if they volunteer? C’mon, Dean, who are you to call the shots?”

“I agree with Dean,” Gordon said. “We shouldn’t lower ourselves to this kind of Blood Magic. An innocent of pure heart will not be sacrificed. We may all have blood on our hands, but we’re not like them. We don’t murder people, even if they’re asking for it.”

Madison threw her head back and laughed. “What if she didn’t have a pure heart? Would she be worthy of being sacrificed then? This kind of bullshit magic.” She snarled around her blunt, human teeth.

“That’s exactly what it is,” Gordon said. “Bullshit. We’re not doing this, only so that the demons and the angels can feel a little safer.” He bowed, his arms lifted like Jesus. “Welcome back to humanity.”

“Well,” Meg said, pushing herself from the wall. “The good thing is you’re not in charge. Lilith should get final say.”

Gordon laughed. “I never voted for Lilith.”

“Nor did I,” Tamara said, standing beside Gordon. A chorus of other negatives joined them from around the room as Meg stepped towards the center of it.

She smiled, sly as a fox. “What gave the you impression this was a democracy? We’re basically demon aristocracy, so shut up and get used to it. We call the shots--we have the power and we’ve lost the most. So, Lilith,” she said, not turning but keeping her eye on them. “Give us your judgment.”

Dean surged forward, but Victor held him back. “Wait,” he said. “Let’s not make a problem before there is one.”

Dean went limp and turned to Lilith, who still sat calmly on the sofa.

Ruby went towards her, hand outreached, but stopping before actually touching her. “Lilith?”

A pool of red seeped from her white dress, staining the cream cushions and sliding down her legs. Ruby gasped, before rising and looking at the back of the couch. Garden sheers plunged through the soft back of it, through the softer belly of Lilith.

“Who did this?” she said, her voice, quiet, dangerous, thin as a knife’s edge. “Who did this in sight of us all?”

“And how the hell did they get away with it,” Meg said, shock still twitching in her cheeks and lips as she struggled to compose herself.

The congregation were already fleeing from the room.

Behind them, Abbie unleashed a howl as she smashed her way through the room, breaking tables and chairs so that the she could fling herself at Lilith’s dead feet. As he ran out the door after the rest of them, Dean heard her pledge her vengeance and, for a brief instance, he pitied the killer once Abbie sniffed them out.

~*~

They had made it to the withering garden before Bela skidded to a stop. She thought she would have felt lighter, that she would have felt the debt fall from her soul like some terrible burden. But she felt the same: scared, terrified, small, alone--but also, relief, right there, rising under the layers of rage and resentment and fear. 

It was done. It was over.

Lilith was dead, her debt released over her dead body, and she was free. 

“Sarah,” she whispered, and she could see Sarah working it out too, could see it in the small o of realization and the dawning smile. “It’s done--we did it.” 

They’d been working for this moment for so long, for freedom, that it could be hardly believed that they were here, now, finally at the end of the line, together.

Bela gathered Sarah up in her arms, and they kissed each other, ignoring the streams of running, frightened people behind them, kissed each other with an urgency she couldn’t remember ever feeling with Sarah because they wouldn’t only have a year, then months, then weeks, then hours to be together-- 

But now--they had years. They had a lifetime.


	11. Valentine

“We need to find a safe place,” Dean said to the crowd that had huddled in the gardens after the discovery of Lilith’s recent murder.

“Yeah? Where?” Meg stood close to Ruby who stood close to Sam. A drizzling rain began to mist down on them, deepening the chill of the morning. “We’ve still got until tomorrow before the boats come--all our leaders are dead. Yours and ours. We’re free game now. Sitting ducks.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Ruby said. “You and me will work on a spell--”

 “--we agreed--” Dean said, pausing when Ruby put her palm against his sternum, to stop him from looming over her.

“We didn’t agree to anything,” Ruby said. “But there are other spells. Meg and I will find a way to target the killer. It’ll be dangerous--we’ll need something personal, something like his hair.” Ruby drew her knife and flipped it leisurely in her hand, biting her lips. “Or we could set a trap. He’s just as vulnerable as us right now. We wouldn’t even need a blade that could kill demons. Anything with a sharp edge can do.”

“Anything can be a weapon if you’re holding it right1,” Charlie sang under her breath, clutching very tightly to a piece of wood that would probably shatter on impact.

Madison strode over to her and kissed the top of her head. 

“A spell sounds safer,” Dean said. “Would it require a sacrifice?” 

Ruby and Meg glanced at each other. “No, it won’t. But it will require something personal of John’s. Maybe some of his hair. Since he’s been running around to god knows where, I don’t suppose that you have a piece just lying around.” 

Dean really didn’t want to do the thing that he was just about to do. It might not be his home anymore, but it was a place where he had felt safe once upon a time. And neither of these two women? Were safe. They didn’t deserve to come anywhere near, especially when it was someone’s personal beef with them that had gotten Sheriff Mills killed in the first place, and it was their desire for Lucifer to rise that had inspired the first massacre. He fought against the nausea as he tried to string his words together right. “There might be some at the old place. Maybe something you could use.” He shrugged. Please say no. 

“Okay,” Meg said. “No need to lead the way--we already know it.” She smirked and then strode down the muddy path, arms linked with Ruby’s. 

“Don’t even think about it,” Dean said, running after them. “If you think I’m letting you out of my sight, you’ve got another think coming.”

“And if you think you’re going alone,” Sam called out to them, “you’re even stupider than you look.”

And, Mike or Michael or whoever he was (and Dean realized with a sinking heart that they were gonna need to have that conversation sooner or later) could not be outdone by Sam, so he too came trotting after Dean’s heels.

~*~ 

With Dean disappearing behind those two demon witches, Gordon turned to the rest of them. “We should find a refuge. Ellen Harvelle’s Roadhouse has long been a safe place for hunters. It’s large, easily defended, with only two ways in and out that can be boarded.”

“It also has some of the best beer this side of the island,” Charlie said, “which I guess isn’t saying much but god, do I need a drink.” She laughed, then bit down the impulse so hard her tongue bled. 

“We all do,” Gordon said. “So let’s get going.” 

They found Ellen and Jo just about opening for the morning, and their faces fell when they saw the weary souls came trudging in. With the rising light of day, Gordon realized they made quite a sight. Maggie and Charlie still had Anna’s blood on their clothes, crusted on their hands. Kevin looked like he was barely keeping it together--in fact, he hadn’t spoken a word for hours. Just like last time. It’d taken him months to even say good morning. Gordon patted him on the shoulder as he took a spare seat mutely. It’d be okay. Kevin would come round when he was ready.

“What’s going on, Gordon?” Ellen said, giving him a steaming cup of bitter coffee. “Awful early for so many of you to be out drinking.”

“We’re not here for pleasure,” Gordon said, sipping the drink, appreciating the way it scorched down his throat and warmed his belly. “But for sanctuary.”

Ellen’s eyes narrowed and flicked to Jo, who was sitting beside Maggie and Charlie, asking if they wanted anything, leaving when she realized they weren’t going to be talking anytime soon.

“You’re really gonna make me ask sanctuary from whom?” Ellen asked. “I’m not a dentist--don’t make me pull the story out of ya.” 

So Gordon told her the story--or what he knew of it. The lists of the dead. The lists of the missing (presumed dead, obviously). The death of the sheriff.

The plate would have broken after Ellen dropped it when she heard that piece of news, but Gordon caught it neatly. 

“So yes,” he said, “we seek sanctuary.”

She shook her head, and leaned against her bar. Jo with tall glasses of water stuck with lemon wedges, even though Charlie kept asking for a drink. “Maybe later, okay?” Jo said, her smile hitched on, strained, not genuine.

Gordon sighed. Girl could have been a great hunter if her mother had let her.

“You could have brought the killer here,” Ellen said. “If Lilith was murdered in plain view and nobody saw it, then the killer could still be here, right now, invisible in our midst.” She looked over at Jo, lips tight against her teeth.

“The witches are not here,” Gordon said. “From my experience, witches are the ones most likely to kill sight unseen." 

“And does Dean know this?” Ellen asked. “Does Dean know that you sent him off with the two you think are the most suspect?”

Gordon shrugged. “Dean’s not a fool, and he can handle himself. He also volunteered to join them. And no, I don’t believe that they are the ones who did this--merely that they are the most likely to fit the profile. Which is possibly what the real killer wants us to think.” Gordon breathed slow, wished desperately for a cigarette, even though he was supposed to be quitting. “There is probably a third witch. We just. Need to find out who it is without turning the situation into another Salem. No burn witch burn today unless it’s the right one.”

“A third witch--in addition to John Winchester?” Ellen’s eyes widened, her mascara already flaking. 

“An accomplice,” Gordon said. “I haven’t told the group yet. No need to worry them until I have it sorted in my head.”

“You should have at least told Dean,” Ellen said, voice severe. “He deserves that.”

Gordon straddled a chair, arms folding around the back of it. “Like I said, Dean’s a smart boy.”

Ellen snorted softly, then started cleaning a glass that nobody had yet drunk out of. “You been down to the old lighthouse yet? Checked to see if their radio is still intact? That way you could just radio the coastguard direct instead of waiting like idiots with thumbs up your asses for them to notice the sheriff hasn’t called in lately.”

Gordon jerked his head up. He thought he knew this island like the back of his hand. “What lighthouse?”

And Ellen told him.

~*~

Victor had hidden himself in the men’s restroom. He turned the faucet on so that cold water streamed out--so that he couldn’t hear the undercurrent of the voices, so that he could drown out the images and voices in his mind with the white noise of the water.

He watched the water flow--the way it rippled and dipped and curved. Made his eyes center in on it, so they wouldn’t flit to the corners of the room, see the things in the shadow.

The door pushed open, and his concentration was ruined--but it was only Gordon.

“I’m sorry,” he said when he saw the way Victor was leaning against the sink, elbows against the hard porcelain. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

Victor shook his head. “Stay.”

Gordon nodded, went over to stand beside Gordon. He reached out with his hand, and rubbed slow circles in his back.

Victor leaned into it, body shifting so that he was closer, until their thighs were pressed together. Gordon’s hand slid up until he was gripped the nape of his neck, fingers caressing his skin, until he finally pressed a kiss to his forehead.

“You’re alright,” Gordon whispered. “You’re alright.”

And Victor allowed himself to believe it, just for a moment, because if there was one thing anybody needed to know about Gordon Walker was that he told no lies.

~*~

Ruby had already asked the boys to give them a minute, so they were alone for the most part.

“I think you’re wrong,” Meg said as they walked down the deserted streets. Maybe the rest of the town was sleeping still. Maybe they felt the shadow of evil. Maybe Azazel had already killed them all.

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” Ruby glanced side-ways at Meg and smiled. “You always think I’m wrong, and sometimes I am. Talk to me, sister.”

Meg shrugged. “Azazel doesn’t do magic. It’s too refined. Takes too much patience. Hell, he didn’t even do the heavy duty lifting of the magic that released Lucifer--just the slaughter part. Which means he got someone to do the spell for him, either willingly or coercively. But the fact is, no way he’d let himself be left vulnerable by his own spell. We’re going to need something more than just any old weapon. We’re going to need something that can kill something supernatural, a high level demon.”

“Not puppy chow,” Ruby said slowly.

Meg glared at Dean’s back. “He won’t like it--but this spell is gonna need to be bigger than a finding spell. Something big enough to smoke out Azazel in John Winchester’s meat suit, something clever enough that John won’t sniff it out because that man hated a witch, didn’t he?” She sighed. “We’re going to need something that witch doesn’t need to activate in case we’re not around for whatever dumbass reason--a spelled object instead of a spell.”

“But not because we’re dead though,” Ruby said, her voice light.

“Like that, yeah.” Meg folded her arms across her chest, leather jacket stretched tight against her shoulders. “We need something anybody could handle.”

“Like a gun,” Ruby said. “So many hunters, so many familiar hands.”

Meg nodded, repeating the words back slow. “Like a gun.”

Ruby shaped her fingers into a gun. “Bang, bang--”

“--my baby shot me down--”

“Bang, bang.”

They bumped shoulders. “You really think that it’s one of us?” Meg asked.

Ruby shrugged. “I don’t care at this point. Whoever it is--clearly has an agenda that’s on nobody else’s desk. And that’s dangerous. There’s no telling what may happen next, or even who the next victims are. We need to put out this wildfire now.”

“More like yesterday,” Meg said.

 They walked in silence before Ruby spoke again. “There’s a real chance that we won’t be able to find what we need at the house. It’s been seven years since he lived there, and not even Azazel or John would be careless to leave something obvious. We might need to--fight him ourselves.”

Meg snorted a laugh. “That’d be--suicide. I’m not into that.”

“Not necessarily,” Ruby said. “But we can’t--we can’t be too afraid to act, okay? If he’s anywhere near us--we take what we can and run like hell to perform the spell. Forget everything else. Focus on the end goal. Everything else is just--chaff. Meaningless. Blah blah blah.” 

Meg looked at Ruby. “You don’t think I can do that?”

“I never said that,” Ruby said. “But think about it--who got chosen to play the long con?”

Meg kicked savagely at a clump of grass, and cursed. “You did.”

“It doesn’t mean I’m better--sure I’m better than some--but you and me? We’re the same. We just do some things better than the other. Like me? I could never have made the shards of Abaddon’s weapon into a sword. Just like I don’t think I’m going to be able to spell the gun against Azazel.” She paused, and put her hands on Meg’s shoulders. “You need to do it.” 

Meg shook her head. “I can’t. Azazel was like--a father to me. Before he disappeared. When I thought he’d just gotten himself killed.” She fell silent. “He didn’t treat me like Alistair did.”

Ruby smiled at her sympathetically, cupping Meg’s cheeks like Azazel had done, like Lucifer had done. Meg leaned into the touch and closed her eyes. “Patricide is the greatest betrayal, one of the strongest elements of magic. Anything can be done with the death of a father. That’s why you need to do it. That’s why it’s need to be you. You’re the only one--don’t you see?”

Meg squeezed her eyes shut. “Okay,” she said finally. “Okay. I’ll do it.” 

“That’s my girl,” Ruby said, hugging her shoulders, as she gestured for the boys to catch them up, and then Sam was by Ruby’s side, Dean on Meg’s other side, and Michael, archangel Michael, on the fringe as always.

Just the way Meg liked it actually. Left him desperate, left him dumb and stupid. He’d already lost the fucking war, and yet here he was, dogging Dean like he was the only thing he ever wanted.

Sad and pathetic. 

~*~

While Meg and Ruby were having their own personal conference, Dean kept pace with Sam and Mike.

Or, Michael, he guessed, wincing. He looked at him now, and wondered if there was anybody who hadn’t lied to him at some point.

Benny hadn’t.

Anna hadn’t.

But for some reason, that didn’t soothe the hurt. “Sam,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I need you to give us a moment.”

Sam paused, shifting his gaze from Dean back to Michael. “Why?”

“Because I need a moment, Sam.” Dean lifted his eyes to Sam’s face. “I need you to trust me.”

Sam jerked a nod, and trotted so that he was a few paces.

“Well, Dean,” Michael said, reaching for his jacket even as Dean swayed away from him. “If you wanted me alone, all you had to do was ask.”

“That’s funny,” Dean said. “ ‘Cause I heard a rumor that you had a question of your own you wanted to ask me. Isn’t that right, Michael, archangel of god?”

Michael huffed a sigh. “So you know.”

“I know,” Dean said. “I just don’t know why you lied to me--pretended to be human, pretended to be some kid named Mike, pretended to love me.”

Michael shook his head, his hands reaching for Dean again before he aborted the movement. “That wasn’t pretend. I love you, Dean, I loved you since before you were born.”

Dean’s face twisted as nausea settled low in his gut, as he struggled to pace his breathing. “You know how creepy that sounds, right?”

“We are fearfully and wonderfully made, Dean,” Mike said, his voice urgent. “And you were fearfully and wonderfully made for me--don’t you know what an honor that is?”

Dean shook his head, taking a pace back from Michael. “No. You don’t get to say that. I have my own life now.”

Michael sighed, his arms outstretched in beatification. “But your life is meaningless now, Dean. I give it meaning. We give each other meaning. Without us, together--” the words broke off, as if there weren’t words enough to convey the intensity and the depth of what he was trying to say. “Your life is a ghost of what it could be, of what we could be together.”

Dean twisted a smile to his lips. “That’s funny because I was pretty damn happy before I came back here.”

“Then think,” Michael said, “how much happier you could have been. You could be.”

“You don’t know anything about me--you don’t know shit.”

Michael’s face was sad. “I know what’s in your blood, Dean. I know what fuels your heart to keep pumping. Saving people, hunting things, the family business. You and me--” here he smiled, incredulously, as if he could barely believe it himself-- “we were supposed to perform the ultimate act of salvation--defeat the devil, and bring heaven back to earth--”

“With an apocalypse,” Dean shouted, “and it’s only because of the Sheriff that the whole world wasn’t laid waste.”

Michael put his finger over Dean’s lips, and he went cold--cold and silent. “That doesn’t matter, Dean. Jody did what she had to do--as will I, and that’s why I agreed. Killing the devil--would have ended it. Maybe--it would have even brought our Father home, now that he had an entire kingdom at his feet, the source of all evil, uprooted and destroyed.”

“So that’s what this is,” Dean said. “One last ditch effort for Dad to come home.” He shook his head, snorting. “Take it from someone who knows, pal. That never works. Not once.”

“You know nothing,” Michael said. “And even though our chance to perform the final gesture of grand salvation has been stolen from us--” his brow furrowed dangerously -- “this earth still needs saving. This island still needs saving. After all, whoever killed the devil can become the new one, I suppose. Either way--heaven will come to earth. But it won’t unless you say yes.”

“Yes to what,” Dean said even though he knew the answer.

“To me,” Michael said. “Yes to me. I’m asking you Dean, let me in--let me help you. Help me save us all. It’s the only way.”

“I don’t believe that,” Dean said. “Not for a hot minute. We can do this--without you. And if you’re not interested in helping unless you’re wearing me as a meatsuit, then go screw yourself, because I’m not interested.” He folded his hands over his chest. “I like this body. I like being the only one in it.”

Michael shook his head, scorn making his eyes hard. “How can you be so selfish?”

“Shut up,” Dean said, quickening his pace so that he could catch up with Sam.

“You okay?” Sam said.

Dean closed his eyes. “I don’t think so, Sammy.” But what if--what if Michael were right? What if he was being selfish. “Michael thinks that if he was possessing me--that he could set everything right.” He looked up into Sam’s eyes. “But I don’t want that Sam, but--what if it is the only way. I don’t want somebody else to die, because of me.”

Sam shook his head. “He’s wrong, Dean. He’s just selfish--greedy and selfish.” He sent a baleful scowl at him. “We’ll take care of it, okay? We’ve always been enough before, and we will be again.”

~*~

When they entered the house, they split up to cover the rooms faster and so as not to clutter it with any more hair or personal effects. Meg took the attic, Ruby the master bedroom, Dean their childhood bedrooms, Sam the downstairs, and Michael the garage.

Michael thought it was some kind of irony sending him to the basement, but he figured it wouldn’t take long and he could join Dean in the bedroom--where literally anything could happen. He looked longingly at Dean until Dean turned away, a faint flush on his cheeks.

He could get Dean to say yes still. Even if there wasn’t Lucifer to kill, even though the apocalypse had been train wrecked off the racks, that didn’t mean they still couldn’t be together.

Like he had hinted before, there would be other holy wars to fight.

“If anyone runs into trouble,” Meg began.

“Just holler so we can come running and save your ass,” Ruby finished, smirking as she exchanged a high-five with Meg.  

This assignment was beneath him, and still flushed with the humiliation of Dean saying no to him, an archangel, he began to nurse a cold, hard edge of resentment as he rifled through the tools which only bore recent signs of use by Jodi herself, that conniving, meddling sheriff.

If only he had had seven years to work on Dean, as Ruby had for Sam. It wasn’t fair.

But maybe God would understand.

The headlights of her sheriff jeep stared at him, almost accusingly. He should open the garage, take out the jeep, so he could have room to properly rummage about. He could probably hotwire it, he mused, looking around at it.

What a piece of goddamn junk. 

He remembered when he rode chariots of god, brighter than the sun, drawn by creatures so fearsome even the angels had to hid their multitude of eyes in fear of their retribution.

Nothing like this. Nothing so human as this. 

This body was wearing old, and thin, in a way that Dean Winchester’s never would because Dean was perfect as he was--perfect, and made for him before the earth even spun around the sun.

He picked at his skin, blunt fingernails scrabbling at the skin that didn’t fit right.

He couldn’t be glad that she was dead, for Dean’s sake, but he was glad, he told himself viciously, slamming a wrench into its toolbox so that it racketed about, clanging his anger back to himself. 

So glad she was dead.

All of this could have been avoided if she’d just left well enough alone. Then Dean would have said yes long ago and they could have done all this unpleasantness properly.

Rattling the tools about as he was, he never heard the soft step behind him, or the smooth grace of the sword plunged into his heart, stopping him dead. His imperfect body crumpled against the hood of the sheriff’s jeep.

Impersonal hands tied his wrists to the frames of the doors, windows rolled down so there was something to be tied to. His legs were tied at the ankle to the grill so that he was laid spread eagle on the hood--a pose Michael had long since cherished of Dean in his private moments, and that only those who had heard his drunken sad song of songs knew.

The figure who had killed Michael hid the sword in a tall bucket that contained mops and brooms before sliding into the driver’s seat, opening the garage door from the button clipped to the viser, and backed slowly out. Another met the stranger, and they switched places. The other kissed the wires together so they sparked, revved the engines, and then, flipping the switch to turn on the good old red and blue lights (but no sirens, not yet), drove away with no one being the wiser, while the first lingered in the drive, watching the jeep disappear down the road. 

It wasn’t until they reconvened in the living room over an hour later empty handed did anyone know that Michael was missing--and they never did find the sword before they tore down the road on foot, following the thickset tire tracks that lead in the general direction of Ellen’s roadhouse. 

~*~

Kevin leaned against the window, his head heavy against the glass. He needed to take a shower. Maybe he wouldn’t need to take a shower again, if things kept going as they were going. 

He didn’t want to die. 

He thought about Channing, his mother. Thought about how he didn’t know if he wanted to ask Channing to marry him, and how that was okay. About his mother. 

He wondered if she’d find somebody. It had been hard, after his father.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

He was so tired of John Winchester’s hand lying heavy on his soul even now. Hadn’t he taken enough? Hadn’t he sacrificed enough.

Sirens rang in the distance, and Kevin frowned, pressing his nose to the window as his eyes looked up the road.

Was salvation come up last?

But his heart failed when he saw it was the sheriff’s jeep and not the coastguard’s because the sheriff was dead--which meant the person driving the jeep wasn’t the sheriff and probably hadn’t come to save them at all.

Whoever it was--it was probably John Winchester to finish what he’d started.

He frowned--his eyes landing on something tied to the front of the jeep, before nausea hit his gut and he dry-heaved against the sill. 

Others had noticed, and they were clustered at the door, arguing to open it.

It didn’t matter. Kevin wanted to tell them it wouldn’t matter. John Winchester and Azazel would tear the island apart.

He didn’t know this because he was some prophet like Cassandra, but he knew John Winchester, and he knew Azazel, and they were on a rampage, fueled by blood lust and anger and rage and who knew what else.

The jeep skidded to a stop. Smoke billowed from the insides, and if a figure went through it, none was the wiser because, for whatever reason, John Winchester didn’t want to be seen.

Or maybe he didn’t want to be a target, since demons were apparently fragile as humans these days.

Kevin was glad.

He didn’t think he could survive seeing his face one more time.

The early afternoon winds cleared the smoke away, and the body was even more visible.

Mike, prone before god and man, and very much quite dead, stared up at the sky, eyes unblinking in the bright sun that shone down upon him. 

A silhouette of wings scorched the metal behind him.

So he had been an angel. More than human. And now he was dead. 

Kevin shook his head.

It should have been obvious, really.

Of course Mike was short for Michael, archangel who had first thrown Lucifer in the pit. Of course, he also would not be spared because it was just Harry Potter all over again, wasn’t it? How could one live if the other didn’t? 

It was all so obvious.

He should have seen it coming.

Just like he should have seen the first set of murders and done something to stop them. 

But he guessed that was the ultimate tragedy catch 22. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

Kevin slid from his seat and drank whisky out of the bottle until Jo pulled it from his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Save Our City by Ludo [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MzotT7D7MX0&feature=kp)]
> 
>  
> 
> 2: Bang Bang My Baby Shot Me Down by Nancy Sinatra [[x](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xSHYlSxQyJM&feature=kp)]


	12. Heart

“He's still out there,” Madison said, putting her eye close to the window, looking for anything roving in the shadows. “We know where he is—we can end it now. And find out what happened to Sam and Dean because if Mike's dead—well, Mike went with them.”

“I'll go with you,” Gordon said, pulling on his leather jacket, and checking to make sure his gun was loaded, safety still flipped on.

Victor followed him, close as a shadow at his elbow. “They're probably fine. John Winchester is picking people off—letting the living find them alive. This move was probably meant to scare both groups—to make us do something stupid. But we're not gonna do that. We're going to stay calm. Cool. Gonna stay alive.”

Madison nodded, and then turned towards the rest of the group who were clustered around. “Any more volunteers?”

Tamara was already on her way to stand beside them before the words even left her mouth.

Abbie rolled her eyes, hair hanging in greasy strands around her neck, as she poured herself another glass of whiskey, and downed it without pausing for breath. “If you want to go out there and get yourself killed, go right ahead. It'll just tire him out so that when he comes for me--” she smiled with her red, red lips.

“Ever heard of being a team player?” Madison said, maybe posturing a little, trying to make herself feel more confident than she was. To be honest, going up against John Winchester? They didn’t have a chance, but she had to believe in something, believe in the off chance else what was the point? She closed her eyes and tried to access the wolf inside—it was easier on the full moon, but she could still get her wolf on without it—but now, with that damn spell, it was out of reach.

“Only when I'm allowed to cheat.” Abbie fluttered her fingers, red nail polish chipped to hell and back. “G'bye.”

Ellen leaned on the counter, hard on her elbows. “You just drank a bottle of my finest whiskey. That shit ain't cheap. You owe me at least seventy five for it.” 

Abbie dug out three quarters from her pocket and flung them toward Ellen. “Happy now?”

Ellen made no move to take the quarters. “Dollars, Abbie, you little shit." 

“Then put it on my tab.”

“Your tab ran out. But maybe you could go with Gordon and Madison and we'll call it square.”

Abbie laughed. “You should do stand up because that's hilarious.” 

Jo rolled her eyes before pulling off her apron, letting it hang from the counter, and swinging herself over it. “I'll go.” 

“You get your butt back here Joanna Beth,” Ellen said, voice even harder.

“But Mom,” Jo said, blonde hair swinging as she faced her mother. “It's important. I can do it.” 

“And this family,” Ellen said, knuckles white as she gripped the wood, “has lost enough. We already lost your father. I refuse to lose my daughter too. Madison and Gordon can take care of it.”

Jo looked back towards Gordon and Madison, at the way they lingered by the doorway, waiting to leave. “Mom, I've hunted with Gordon before. He's the one who taught me how to shoot for god's sakes.” 

“You were hunting deer,” Ellen said. “Deer!”

“And I'll fucking shoot him down like the animal he is,” Jo shouted. “Why won't you let me do this? I want to help, not sit here like a lump on a log, useless as a sack of shit.”

Madison rolled her eyes and scraped out a sigh. “Jesus Christ, can we please?”

Gordon said, then, really quiet like, “Listen to your mother, Jo.” Then he touched Madison's hand. “It's time. We can do fine on our own. Always done fine on my own. We'll kill this asshole, then find the others—or vice versa, whichever comes first.”

Madison paused one more time. “Listen, if something happens—run. Don't worry about us. Just make sure you run to somewhere safe. The church maybe, alright?”

Ellen nodded. “Stay safe.”

“I always am." 

They walked together and went into the shadowy green woods. “Hey, Gordon,” Madison whispered as she tramped through the bush. “Don't you miss the times you thought I was the big bad in the big bad woods?”

Gordon turned around, looked at her with his big brown eyes. “One could say.”

~*~

Huddled in one of the seats, shoulders pressed tight against the wall, Kevin thought about the first times he'd seen John Winchester. It had been hard, at first, to not like the man. He was big, friendly. Had a nice, deep voice that sounded like he'd coated it thick with maple syrup.

But the longer they knew him, the more they saw he wasn't just that. Saw the way he treated his own kids—sometimes the neighbors' too when he wasn't watching himself, when he tripped and forgot to be polite and respectable—

His breath came out in a sharp gasp, and he pulled on his hair, twining it around his fingers. He was gonna need to get it cut again. When he got back, he would. He'd take another vacation. One where he could stay at home, and read, and watch Netflix, and just—just take enough times for these new memories to get old again, so that they weren't so present, pressed up against the new technique he was studying for the cello, or the way Channing liked her peanut butter and honey sandwiches, or the way they'd just pop up when he was watching a movie at the randomest times.

The thing he couldn't forget though—the thing he'd never forget, the part that'd never would get old, is that nobody—not even the hunters—had thought that John Winchester had been possessed. They'd only known when he got back up after the sheriff shot him in the chest the first time, eyes gleaming yellow as he crouched and prowled the earth like the devil himself. 

Kevin blinked. Azazel had been one of the fallen angels, according to his research. Maybe John Winchester had told him, yes. Maybe he'd known what the demon had in plan, maybe he hadn't. 

Maybe all of this was just--

His lips twitched against his teeth, and he jumped when he heard a twig snap in the yard. Ellen and Jo heard it too, because they got real quiet. 

Abbie sat a little higher in her seat, eyes roaming the corners and the windows as she stood slowly, silently to her feet.

Ellen reached for the gun she kept tucked under the counter.

Bela and Sarah held each other's hands, breathing softly in the dark, even as they pulled small pistols with their free hands and took aim at the door.

Kevin just remained on his stool. What was it that he could do? It was just like last time—and the helpless feeling, the hopeless feeling, settled into his bones heavy as cement and heady with the need to breathe, for oxygen, to breathe.

The door creaked open, and a shadow fell through it.

“We're closed,” Ellen called out.

John Winchester raised his yellow eyes from the gloom, and smiled. “Oh, come on now, Ellen—is that any way to greet an old friend?”

Kevin went heady hearing John's voice again, like it was any other day, like it was like it'd been before, before the possession, before the rampage.

Maybe even before he'd become such a bad person, before the war, both wars, the physical one and the spiritual one, the ones it was hard to heal from, if it was even possible to heal--

His heart rabbitted in his chest, blood pressure rising hot and hard.

“Cat got your tongues?” John said, looking around. “Surprised to see me back?”

“Guess we’re just not pleased to see you,” Ellen said. “Why don’t you go back to hell?”

Azazel laughed, loud and coarse. “Didn’t agree with me, Ellen.”

Abbie kicked back another whiskey, letting her foot fall from the table it'd been perching on, hitting the floor with a dull thud that instantly caught John's attention.

Kevin saw the way he stiffened—his relaxed stance a pose that hid tense muscles, coiled to strike. 

“C'mon, Azazel, just say it,” Abbie said. “Surprise, you’re back. Woo hoo. Too bad I forgot my confetti and parade.” She rose to her feet, head tilted to the side, red hair tumbling down her shoulders, catching the light like bloody knives. “We can always paint townhall red though, what do you say?” She bit her lips, dropping a wink.

Jo's small revolver, the one she'd had tucked in the back of her jeans, swung towards Abbie.

“Goddamn it, Abbie,” Ellen hissed. “Whose fucking side are you on?”

“Yeah, whose side are you on?” John or Azazel asked. “The only person I know you ever trusted was Lilith, and well--” he laughed – “last time I saw, she got herself stuck on something sharp. How about that?”

Abbie wasn't smiling—her eyes blazed bright like hellfire—and Kevin could have sworn she grew at least a foot. Her voice deepened when she spoke, “And you will pay for that murder, Azazel. I swear it on Lilith's dead body, and upon my teeth that will gnash your flesh from your bones, and when you beg for mercy, none will come to you.”

“Big words from a woman who can't even keep her mouth clean when she eats,” Azazel said in a lazy drawl. “You've gone to seed since the last time I--”

And that was Ellen pulled the trigger on her shotgun. John staggered under the force of the buckshot. “Thanks, darling,” he said. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Abbie shrugged out of her jacket. “I swear to god, if you want something dead, you just ask me to do it.”

“Not necessarily,” John said. His hand flashed, and a knife buried itself in Jo's heart.

She crumpled instantly, red bleeding onto her purple t-shirt, bubbling to her lips as the gun clattered to the ground.

Ellen, screaming, fired another round that hit John Winchester's sternum, but that didn't stop him even as she struggled to reload, her hands shaking. To be honest, Kevin didn't think there was anything that could stop John Winchester, but then that red head did, ran up to him like she was a brick wall and he was nothing, ramming her knee into his ribs so that he was almost forced to his own, the fingers of her other hand buried in the soft yield of his throat, becoming slick with blood as she tightened her grip, her red lips snarling around her teeth.

Kevin thought that he should move, that he should help Ellen maybe even though it was useless, then his legs were forcing him up from the table, and he was pulling her by the arm, pulling her back towards the back room where Charlie and Maggie had finally been stunned from their daze and had beaten a retreat, clustered by Sarah and Bela too. Behind them was a backdrop of noise, of flesh crunching bone, of Abbie's banshee shriek as she cried out, “Dare you touch me, Abaddon, angel of the abyss! I'm going to carve you from that sack of flesh in a such a way that even Alastair would marvel.”

And John Winchester or Azazel must have dared because there was another shriek, the sound of body going against body, even as Bela succeeded in shattering the window, pushing themselves through, bloody and stumbling their way back to the woods and into the way of Gordon and Madison and Tamara coming for the Roadhouse at a dead run, called back by the shots, and they pulled the group closer together, tugged them by their arms and elbows, urging them to hurry, to hurry, as they left Abaddon to whatever fate she’d find at Azazel’s hands.

Kevin thought he shouldn't be okay with that.

But he kind of was because it meant he had that one more chance to actually make it out of this thing alive.

~*~

The others, Dean, Sam, Meg, and Ruby, heard the two shots too—and their pace quickened until they came upon the roadhouse with the sheriff vehicle skidded to a stop.

They saw Mike's body first—and Dean hid his eyes first before forcing himself to look (because he should be brave enough to look, to not be afraid, brave like his mother had been)—to look at Mike's splayed body, the spray of ashen wings along the hood of the car.

Standing there, looking at the corpse, the corpse that wasn't human, that was angel—something that Mike had failed to mention over the course of their relationship—it was hard to believe that anything would be okay again. 

And even though they hadn't been close for years, even though Dean hadn't messaged him when he'd been sent to Los Angeles, even though Michael had shored up all these grand plans for him, this was just one more person that had been taken from him.

Dean licked his lips, struggled to breathe, even as Sam put a heavy hand on his shoulder, patting him there like it would be alright. “I'm sorry, Dean,” he said. “I'm so sorry.” 

“Guys,” Ruby said, already edging his way into the Road House. “It's worse in here.”

Dean forced himself to breathe, to put his hand over Sam's and grip it because this was it, right here, their little group may be the only ones left alive on this godforsaken island. “Who?” he forced himself to say, eyes sliding away from Sam's gaze.

“Shit.” Meg held up her hand to her mouth and looked away. Dean came up behind her – and saw. 

Saw Jo, saw Abaddon, her head lopped off, her hands and feet too, spread out on the pool table she'd had him up against just a few days ago. 

His stomach roiled and he turned away, only to find Sam behind him, and Sam holding him against his chest, hand in his hair. “Don't look—don't look--”

They closed the door to the Road House and walked the perimeter. “Some of them must have gotten away,” Ruby said, “or else there would have been more bodies.”

Dean held onto that, held onto that hard. “Where though?” he said.

They paused at the broken window in the back, then crouched as he looked at the ground. “This way, looks like.”

They followed the trail through the grass, relieved that it was only footprints, and not a blood trail. 

~*~

Sarah hugged herself as she watched them argue, watched Gordon and Tamara argue with Victor, watched Maggie with her head bent over the camera, not saying anything, just rewatching the horror she'd caught on film over and over again, watched Bela reload her compact revolver, watched Tamara sit beside a sobbing Ellen and say that she was sorry. That she'd lost her daughter too.

Sarah was tired of loss.

She looked at Bela again, cool and calm, still somehow elegant even though they were on the run, her wrists decorated with silver bangles she had stolen.

She wished she wouldn't do that. She was rich enough to buy them. Maybe stealing was just a habit now. 

Sarah shook her head. She couldn't get distracted.

Bela was finally free, and they needed to survive this.

The sun, shining through the window, felt warm on her back as she waited for them to come to an agreement. There was no plan, and everybody knew it. Even Charlie was waiting for the people to just argue it out.

She hoped that they'd just do what Gordon and Madison said. They knew what they were doing more than anybody else. But Meg and Ruby thought this was still their island, their game, their rules. 

She laughed, shook her head.

When would they realize they were wrong? Hopefully before they all turned up dead. She began to rise to her feet to cast her vote (like it was even a democracy, right) when the door pushed open. 

Silence descended on them, except for the ones with guns, who raised them, for all the fucking good it'd do.

“It's just us,” came Dean’s voice, and then Victor was pushing his way through the throngs of people, gripping him into a tight hug.

“Glad you're safe, brother,” he said. “When Mike came dead and trussed up on the truck—I was--” 

“Worried?” Gordon said. Then, his voice quiet, he said, “Me too.” He stepped beside Victor, and clapped his hand on Dean’s shoulder.

Sarah watched Dean make his way over to Ellen, to sit down heavily beside her. “I'm sorry about Jo,” he said. 

Sam sat down on her other side. “Me too,” he said. “Jo was very--” and then even his voice faltered, and he just squeezed Ellen's hand. 

Sarah hadn't known Jo very well.

Should she feel sadder? She should probably feel sadder, but there wasn't any of that feeling anymore. It'd gotten all scraped away in fear and panic and god knew whatever else. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, and leaned back against the window, trying to make the guilt go away. She was just numb, that's what it was—the grief would come back just as soon as--

The window gave way behind her in a spray of glass and John Winchester's hands around her throat as he tugged through before he slammed a wet hanky over her mouth and her vision swam as darkness descended and she knew no more.

 ~*~

“I'm not going to sit around here being scared,” Bela said after they had reconvened at the church after they failed to catch up with Sarah and John Winchester. “We're going to do something.” She eyed Dean and Gordon, Victor and Tamara. “I thought you were hunters. Why aren't we hunting them down?”

“We will,” Gordon said. “But we need to be smart about this. He's stronger, faster than us. He's not affected by the spell while we are--”

“--which wouldn't be a problem if we agreed to cast spells of our own,” Ruby said.

“And he has the upper hand. We’ll find Sarah—but only if we do it right.”

“Before or after she's dead?” Bela said. “I can't wait that long.” 

“We won't stop you,” Gordon said. “But I won't risk our lives on a mission that has no chance of success.”

“I don't think he's going to kill her just yet,” Dean said. “He could have killed her then—but he didn't. He wants us to go after him.”

“She's bait,” Victor finished.

 “I don't care what she is to him. And we are going to save her, okay? If you're not interested, then get out of my way.”

Tamara slid in front of her when she tried to leave the door. “Gordon might want to let you leave—but I'm not. We need every hand we have on board if we're going to win this. We need to stick together. Haven't you ever watched a horror movie? You know how it ends if you go out there alone. Don’t be in a hurry to get yourself killed.”

Bela raised her hands in mock surrender, and threw herself onto one of the pews. “Okay. What's your grand plan?”

“I don't play well by other people's rules,” Gordon said. “Too often—I find they're not made with my best interest at heart.” He nodded at Dean. “Your mother would be one of those people, Dean. This game she's played, not's done well for us or for her.”

Dean lowered his head. “I can't do this right now, Gordon.”

“I know,” he said. “I'm not here to run a dead horse into the ground. But the point is? Is that we need to make him play our game instead of just letting him pied piper us to whatever end he's aiming for.”

Sam leaned in closer. “Yeah?”

“We'll need bait of our own. Capture him. Put him in the jail cell. Either persuade him to tell us where Sarah is, or lure his accomplice out as well, catch them both. Find Sarah ourselves if we have to.”

Bela sucked on her bottom lip. “And who's going to volunteer to be bait? We know what he does.” Her eyes shuttered down. “How he kills people. It's not quick. It's not painless. And Sarah, could be out there—right now--”

Bela knew what she should do. She knew that she should volunteer to be the bait. But the words got stuck in her throat, swollen with dry-mouthed fear, and she tried to say the words, but she couldn't. She'd seen what he'd done, and it had reminded her too much of hell, of the fate she would face—then Lilith's dead body, the release of her soul—she couldn't risk condemning her soul, not again.

She'd just barely escaped. For the first time, she'd almost felt safe—and now--

“--I volunteer,” Charlie said, her voice quavering. “I volunteer.”

Someone else was doing it for her. She was glad she was sitting down because surely her knees would have crumpled from relief, but now—no one could know. 

Madison broke ranks with Gordon, and pushed Charlie back down into a pew. “This isn't the fucking Hunger Games, Charlie, this is serious shit.”

Charlie pushed Madison away. “You think I don't know that?”

Bela took this as her cue. “I can do it,” she said. “She's my girlfriend.”

“No,” Charlie said, just like Bela knew she would. “I can do this. For the longest time I've just been little old me, but I know I can do something better. Something bigger than all of us. I'm not afraid. I've been waiting for this my whole life.”

“For what?” Madison cried, her hands clinging to Charlie’s shoulders..

Charlie looked up, her eyes glazed. “To be a hero. To be someone worthwhile!” 

“You already are worthwhile,” Madison said. 

Bela cleared her throat. “Well, if she wants to volunteer, she wants to volunteer. Stirling strength of character, that one." 

“Possibly more than what can be said of you,” Dean's voice cut in.

Bela shrugged. “I'm a thief—not a hero.” She turned back to Charlie, and bent down so that their eyes met. “Listen—I thank you for doing this, but I promise you that you are not alone. We've got your back, every step of the way.”

“Oh good,” Charlie said. “I was hoping you'd say that. So um--” she coughed --” how does this work?”

Madison shook her head, but stepped back with her hands folded across her belly. “Just walk through the woods, little red riding hood. Don't worry—he'll do all the work.” 

“Well, not all of it, I hope?” Charlie said, looking up at them. “I mean, you're going to rescue me before I get captured right?”

~*~

Once they had left, Ruby pulled Meg into one of the confessionals while she took the other one. “This is stupid,” she said. “We need to do the sacrifice—we need to get our powers back. We're just human and mortal and weak--” her voice failed.

“I don't remember being human the first time,” Meg said. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.” 

Ruby looked down at her lap, at her hands clasped there, scraped and bruised from running. On Alastair's rack, she had sworn she wouldn't be this helpless again, that she wouldn't feel this helpless again.

And yet--

the trapped feeling crawled inside her, nested like she was its home.

For so long, she hadn't felt it—it was almost easy to believe that it had finally gone, that it wasn't haunting her anymore.

And yet—here it was.

“We'll need a sacrifice,” she said, her voice soft. 

A rap on the wood startled them, and Maggie's voice filtered through. “What kind of sacrifice are we talking about here?”

Meg and Ruby eyed each other behind the wooden grill. “One who is pure of heart,” Ruby said.

“Is that a synonym for a virgin?” Maggie asked.

Ruby smiled when Meg burst into laughter that was too high strung, too nervous to be considered joyful. “No. Just someone who's a good person, I guess.” Ruby stepped from the confessional, and used her presence to coax Maggie against the wall, where she was joined by wood. “Are you a good person, Maggie?”

Maggie swallowed, her hands bunched into fists. “Why can't it be one of you?” Her eyes flashed from Ruby to Meg to back again. “I like how it's always the person who says someone who needs to be sacrificed never volunteers.”

Meg gave that barely flash of smile. “Well. I've lied. A lot. I've stolen. I've lusted. I've slit the throats of nice men for pocket change. Does that make me a good person?”

Maggie stiffened under the hot breath of Meg's words, but to her credit, Ruby supposed, she did not run. “I can see why you wouldn't make the cut.” Then she turned to Ruby herself. “And what about you? What's your excuse?”

“I'm a demon, Maggie,” Ruby said. “Being a good person doesn't fit the job description—the only good we are is just at what we do. And we do bad things really, really good, don’t we?”

“The very best,” Meg said. “So unless you're volunteering--?” She let the question dangle, worm on a hook for young souls like Maggie's.

“What would the spell do exactly?” Maggie said.

“Make us ourselves again mostly,” Meg said. “Make Madison more werewolfy. Make the salt lines work again. The holy water. Basically restore the supernatural law and order of things. Sound worthwhile to you?”

Maggie's voice shook. “I don't know if I'm a good person. If I were a good person, I wouldn't be thinking that I need to stay alive because I have a date on Saturday.”

“Everybody has doubts. It's what they do with those doubts that make them good or bad or not—wouldn't you say?” Meg said. She was leaned in close on Maggie's right shoulder, and Ruby mirrored her pose. Two little devils on a young girl’s shoulders.

Good for them that all the angels were dead and gone.

Well, all the angels that still gave a shit at least.

“And what are you going to do with those doubts?” Ruby said. “You're going to let them take hold of you, or are you gonna show them who's boss?”

Maggie shouldered past them, then turned around to face them, arms folded over her stomach. “Ever heard of some personal space? Or is it just easier to manipulate people when you're crowding up so close they got no room to think?”

“Manipulations?” Meg said, her eyebrows shooting up. 

“Just stone, cold facts,” Ruby added, patting Maggie on her shoulder as they swept by. “Think about it. I'm sure there'll be plenty of time for their plan to fail.”

“Wait--” Maggie said, and they both paused, but did not turn to look at her. “If you were to do it, how would I die?”

Ruby turned around, stalked toward Maggie. “All you have to do is stand still--while I rip your heart from your chest.”

Maggie’s face spasmed, and she turned away, leaning against the confessionals for support. Ruby shook her head, and rejoined Meg as they walked slowly back to what remained of the group as they waited for the others to return. 

“Think she'll do it?” Meg said.

“Doesn't matter if she does,” Ruby said. “Either she will, and she'll think she did it too late, or she won't, and it won't matter anyway.”

“We could work on Ellen next,” Meg said.

“Or Dean. If they fail, he might be more easily persuaded,” Ruby said. “Sam won't like it but. We don't always get what we want, do we?”

Meg shook her head. “No. We don't.”

They stood on the fringe of the crowd. “Do you ever think,” Meg said, “that one day we won't have to do this anymore? And we can just.....rest?”

Ruby shook her head. “I can't let myself think like that.”

She had seen Lucifer's face. She had touched his corpse. 

But she couldn't believe that he was gone.

If he was gone—then what was the point of everything she had done?

“Of course,” Meg said, leaning against the wall, legs crossed at the boots, arms folded across her chest. “That actually assumes the point that there actually are good people in this room.” 

Ruby rolled her eyes. “Of course there are good people. Didn't you see Captain America?” 

“Yeah, but who here's a Steve Rogers, and even if there were, why would we sacrifice somebody so fine?”

Ruby turned around to look at her. “Seriously?” 

“No, don't tell me,” Meg said. “Else it wouldn't be called a sacrifice, blah blah blah.” She shook her head and shoved off from the wall, to what—storm out the door? Apparently, but even John Winchester was enough to dampen one of Meg's famous dramatic exits, so she hard-lefted her way to a pew, and sprawled into one of those instead, glaring surly and unhappy at anybody who would look.

~*~

Maggie stared out the stained glass. She could almost see her reflection, warped and dimpled in translucent shades of blue.

Was it the virgin Mary that was depicted?

She thought it was.

The demons wanted a sacrifice, and here they were in a house of god.

She wasn’t religious, but she knew about Christianity by over exposure. Knew about the sacrifices in the wilderness, knew about Jesus on the cross.

She looked at her hands, cupped open in her lap. Her fingers were still rubbed raw from where she had tried to untie the knot that had tied Anna to the rafters.

Something salty pricked her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, rubbing her wrist over them. Blurred and bleary, her gaze fell on Meg, who was staring at her with her arms folded, a small smile stretched around her teeth.

Maggie turned her head away, guilt seeping into her belly.

If she were to do it, if she were to volunteer like Charlie had to be bait--she’d die. At least Charlie had a chance of coming back again, but there would be no chance of coming back from Ruby ripping her heart out.

There had to be another way. Surely people who did not have supernatural powers could fight against this--

She closed her eyes. She had to believe that. She had to believe that even though she was just human, with nothing particular special (and not even her goodness of heart was particularly special) about her, that she too deserved to live.

There had to be another way. Maybe everybody else was too tunnel-visioned to find it, but Maggie would find it the best way she knew how.

~*~

Kevin and Bela searched the woods. They were too afraid to call out, and Bela was never very good about asking for help—too many times she'd cried out and nobody had come. Too many times people had known she was in trouble and had done shit. Too many times, too many times, too many times.

And now—now Sarah was gone after she had just managed through sheer dumb luck to escape from the fire. She shouldn't have been surprised. 

Good things didn't happen—not really. If they did happen, it was just something to make the bad things hurt that much worse. 

Because Sarah had said, so many times, that she'd follow her back into hell to rescue her, but if Sarah were dead—Bela didn't think she could do that and it had been easy to ignore the guilt because everything made her feel guilty, she'd done such a good job learning not to feel it anymore, not to let it stick in her gut, but she couldn't ignore this because it'd never mattered if she wouldn't have made the same decisions Sarah made because she was going to be dead and it wouldn't have mattered--

And now it did.

She would never forgive this demon for putting her in this position.

Kevin put a hand out in front of her, and she stopped. “What?”

Kevin tilted his head, and Bela did then too—and then she heard it. Someone calling for help. “Sarah,” she breathed. She was alive. 

She wouldn't have to make that choice after all.

They rushed together through the forest, the limbs snapping underfoot, alerting anybody who was listening that they were here, but Bela didn't care, they just needed to find her.

And then there she was, Sarah cuffed to a tree, blood on her face, and Bela went to her, cupping her cheeks in her hand, asking her over and over if he had hurt her, if he had beat her, and what silly questions, questions no one had asked her when she had well ever.

Sarah was crying, and Bela held her close, wiping the tears and the dirt and the blood off with the cuff of her sleeve before she went to the cuffs, heavy iron ones that had rubbed sores and welts into her wrists. She fumbled with her hair, pulling out the bobby pin she always kept on her for just such situations and, with shaking hands, began to pick the lock.

“I didn't think I'd ever see you again,” Sarah said, “even though I also knew that you'd find me.”

“Shut up--you’re distracting me,” Bela said, struggling to keep a tremor out of her voice. She couldn't let Sarah see her like this, couldn't let her see the guilt, the second doubts—she was so sure that she would have come for her, and she was right, she'd come to the ends of the earth, but what about beyond, had Sarah been expecting her to find her beyond the edges of the earth as well?

She adjusted her grip on the bobby pin, forced her hands to remain still.

The question didn't matter, not anymore. 

The cuffs fell from her wrist with a clank and Sarah cried out in relief as she held her hands to her chest.

She needed antibiotics. She needed bandages. She needed somewhere safe.

“Guys,” Kevin said. “There's someone coming.”

Sarah's head jerked up. “He's coming back, he's coming back--” over and over, and with each time her voice rose higher, and higher, until Bela put her hand over her mouth, whispering,

“I'm sorry, Sarah, but we need to be quiet, we don't want him to hear us, can you do that for me?”

Sarah nodded behind her palm, and she drew it away slowly.

“I think it's too late for that,” Kevin said. “We need to run, now!”

And they ran, they ran so hard even though they were tired, even though Sarah could barely walk, her legs tired and worn out, and they crashed on the forest floor, scraping their hands and knees as they skidded to a stop.

“It's not going to work like this,” Kevin said, panting. “He's going to catch up. He never gets tired.”

“We just have to keep moving,” Bela said. “That's all we got to do.”

Kevin shook his head. “No. We need to strategize. I'll stay behind. Distract him with a different trail, maybe slow him down long enough for you to get to the church.” He looked at her. “We'll meet up there, okay?”

Bela took a moment to look at Kevin's face, to make sure that he really meant it but then realized she didn't care. He'd offered. No take-backs. “Okay--”

but Sarah wasn't going to let that go without a fight. “We can't just leave him,” she cried as Bela dragged her up to her feet again.

“He's faster than we are together,” Bela said. “He'll be able to outrun them.”

“We can't just leave!”

Bela spun Sarah around, planting her hands on her shoulders. “We need to survive! We are not dying here.” 

Kevin pushed Sarah onward. “Just go!” 

Sarah listened to that final shove, and went.

They ran through the woods, Bela trying to remember the map that Madison had scratched for her but that had been ages ago, a different lifetime ago, and she was struggling to recall it. 

But there was a bridge across the river—and all they had to do was get across it and then up that hill and then to the church and then they'd be safe for the moment, they had to be.

~*~

Sarah looked back because she was Lot's wife, her dried tears fragile, crumbling pillars of salt on her cheeks, and she looked back and saw John Winchester loping lazily after their frenzied hurry through the woods. “Oh my god,” she said, “oh my god.”

 Had he gotten past Kevin? Had he killed Kevin? 

“Don't look back,” Bela said. “Just keep running.”

But that was too hard, her legs burned, her lungs couldn't take in enough air, and she thought she was going to pass out.

She couldn't keep running like this. She couldn't keep being scared like this.

John Winchester was so close now she could feel the thud of his steps, and was that the warm pant of his breath on her neck or just the heat from running, from the exertion, the anxiety--

Then Bela fell, her hand wrenched from hers, and Sarah turned to pick her up, only to see that she hadn't fallen, that Azazel wearing John Winchester had wrapped her hair into a fist, jerking her to her knees and using the rest of his weight to bear her to the forest floor as he tried to flip her over so that he could see her face, but Bela fought, pushing against him, trying to buck him off, prying at the fingers around her throat even as Sarah found a log and slammed it against the side of his face with all the feeble strength she could summon.

But it must have been enough because he fell from Bela, and she scrambled to her feet, her eyes scared as she pushed Sarah in front of her and they were almost on the bridge, if they were fast enough they could—they could compromise it somehow—and John Winchester could fall to his death and they wouldn't be bothered, they could go home, safe. 

She turned to pull Bela along faster, to let her know the plan, but Bela's mouth was open like she was going to say something, and blood was gushing from her lips from where his knife had pierced her lungs, rending the soft tissue, tearing her flesh, her heart—Sarah stared at the bleeding pool staining her front like it wasn't real, like it was a fevered dream like the one's she'd had when she'd been chained to the tree. 

But no--he killed her, he killed Bela, right after they'd gotten back her soul, right after they'd been able to do everything they planned, to even get to that point of being able to make plans. And now he was throwing her away like garbage, like she didn't mean anything.

And now he was pushing her dead body over the bridge before Sarah could say goodbye or that she loved her one last time.

She couldn't even remember their last words—already forgotten in the blur of fear and pain.

For some reason, her legs were pulling her over the side of the bridge, like that would save her, like there was anything she could do to run from this man who couldn't tire, when she was already so tired, and where there was no place to go—and then his hand fell on her wrist, his knife, the one he’d plucked from Bela’s back, was raised a second time, and he said, “You know that you can run, but you--”

“--you can't have me,” Sarah said, wrenching her hand away from him with all the strength she had, so that she was free of him.

But she underestimated the follow through of the pull, and her feet slipped from the bridge. She barely managed to hold on to the very edge of it, her fingers weak and slipping against the slick wood, and John Winchester was already raising his boot to stamp on her hand, to let the fall and the rocks below do the rest of his work for him.

Sarah let go.

~*~

It wasn't that Charlie was scared, she thought, wandering the woods with all the rest of them out of sight, it was just that the trees were very tall, casting very dark shadows, and the silence was very silent like there weren't even birds tweeting or singing or nesting or whatever it was birds did which Madison was always saying was bad news, seriously, bad news.

Like, this happened in the movies all the time. All she needed was a suitably menacing soundtrack and she'd be that girl who was toast for no good reason within the first five minutes. Unless, of course, this horror story had started on the day they'd boated their way to the island then she supposed she'd actually lasted until almost the very end. 

She kinda-sorta smiled. Rock on.

The smile vanished immediately when she heard her first twig snap of the evening. “Hello?” she called out. “Sarah, is that you?” 

Maybe they'd get lucky and it actually was Sarah and she could go home without actually pissing herself from fear.

No such luck, however, because instead of seeing Sarah's beautiful face, there was just John Winchester, with blood on his clothes.

Blood of her friends probably. 

“Oh, it's you,” she said in a voice that didn't sound like hers at all. She raised her head to gain a little more height, then hoped to god her friends were lurking their way to giving this a-hole a concussion, and added, “if you've come to kill me, I'm afraid you've got another think coming.”

John Winchester or was it Azazel—to be honest, she still wasn't clear on that point—laughed. “Where the hell did they dig someone up like you? Oh well--” he shrugged, and he started advancing on her, knife in his fist, and she scurried backwards, tripping on a rock or a tree root or something and she landed hard on her butt, scuttling away in the leaves under his ever broadening shadow and pretty soon she forgot about bravado and was screaming for help, for anyone who would listen, to please just come and help her this wasn't fun anymore it'd never been fun oh god she was gonna die and she still hadn't finished her first stint as queen of moondor.

Then it happened, finally, Dean slamming a whammy of a branch at the back of his head until he crumpled down like a tower of misplaced jenga blocks. But he didn't just stop at the first blow, he stood over him, and hit him again—and again, until her rapid beating heart stood still, and she felt it flow up her throat because Dean wasn't stopping, and blood was spattered around the grass and on his hands, and she curled her legs up in on herself because because because he just wasn't stopping--

“Dean,” she said, “Dean?” 

She didn't think he'd heard her, but he did stop—panting over his body, even though John was saying something soft, something like, if you need to let it out, let it out, okay, you can't hurt me, boy, you can't hurt me.

But that was wrong, Charlie thought, that was the wrong. She saw Sam watching Dean from the top of the knoll he’d crested, and she prayed that he’d step in, that he’d do something--anything--and then she saw Victor pushing past Sam and then they were both coming down the hill together, and she hoped, together, that it’d be alright.

~*~

Dean stood over John Winchester, shaking in time with the rhythm of Azazel’s laughter, the wood heavy in his hands.

He hated this face. He hated John's face. He hated it when John made him cut his hair, and when John insisted that he was going to go into the army, going so far as to threaten that on his 18th birthday to sign him up and send him to bootcamp, so that he wasn’t so much his mother’s son.

And he hated that face for when he wasn't lying, when he wasn't drunk. He hated it when John Winchester had left them for days without a goodbye or a note, when he'd fight with Mom and make her cry for days before—before he'd killed her.

No, that wasn’t right. Before Azazel killed her.

And he hated that John Winchester's eyes gleamed yellow, blatant reminder that it hadn't really been him, had it, it'd been a demon, that it wasn't really his father who'd killed their mother even though Dean knew the domestic violence reports, and he knew that John had had it in him, had seen it in the way that John Winchester would hunt, how he'd hunt down the monster mothers with their monster young, how so many monsters who were mothers were dead at his hand, and he'd said it'd been okay, that they deserved it, and the way he’d heard people whisper before Jody sent him away that maybe he’d been possessed all along--

And then there was Benny too—Benny'd been a vampire and if it had been his Dad, he would have just hunted him without remorse, like he was an it in need of eradication, and he made Dean do it too, had brought Dean along when he'd been just a kid, when he hadn't known he could say no to people wanting him to do things he didn't want to do—and the guilt sliced him deep as he slammed the wood into John Winchester's face—because how many people like Madison and Benny had he killed? How many of them had he murdered just because his father had put a gun in his hands? 

Dean didn't think he'd ever forgive him for that, not himself, not his father, not Azazel.

Not ever. 

And nothing would make it right—and they needed to know where Sarah was.

He drew in a deep, steadying breath, forced himself to hold his hand still, and fought the shame spiral that began to coil in his gut, the promise he'd broken to himself to be better than this, to be better than the violence that he'd been taught, to be better than his father and the shadow it left over him—and for what?

He looked at the bloody pulp of John Winchester's face, at the splotch of purple and blue bruises that began to form, and felt ashamed. He let his father down as a boy, and he had let himself down as an adult. Had failed to be better. Better than his father, better than how he'd been raised.

“You're calling the shots, boy,” he said. “I do whatever you want me to. Isn't that what you always wanted? To call the shots? To do what you wanted? To blow your old man off like all the other kids?” He laughed then. “I guess here's your chance then—but are you gonna take it?”

“Shut up,” Dean said. He remembered then that Charlie was still on the ground, and, out of the corner of his eye, he looked to see if she was okay--her face was pallid and pale, freckles staring in stark contrast against her skin. He felt bad.

He should have gotten there sooner.

He should have—well, he just should have.

Then Sam was at his shoulder. “You okay?” His hands skittered over his clothes, towards the muscles tremoring under his thin skin as he kicked the dropped branch away.

Dean shook his head.

Azazel eyed them, yellow gaze shifting from one to the other, tongue pressed against the corner of his lip.

Dean turned away.

~*~ 

Keven had waited for John Winchester, just like he said he would, even though sweat slicked his palms, and his heart beat thudded against his ribcage even though he wasn't running, and he waited for John even though it felt like he walked along the edge of sheer cliff, the bottom of it already falling from under his feet. 

He heard John before he saw him—and, taking a deep breath—Kevin made a show of cracking limbs and making as much noise was was possible, then tore through the woods, fast as his sneakers could take him.

It wasn't until, pressed up against a tree, trying to catch his breath, that Kevin realized he wasn't hearing a sound—definitely not a sound that could be interpreted as a serial killer in ugly pursuit behind him.

Kevin peeked out from behind his tree, half-expecting to see John Winchester already standing behind him, but there was no one there. Just the empty forest. 

Which was when he realized that the plan hadn't work. He slammed his head against the trunk of the tree, biting and sucking on his bottom lip.

It hadn't worked. No matter what, he always won, even when he was supposed to be dead, he won.

Kevin pushed off from the tree and retraced his steps. If he was fast enough (and he was already so tired), he'd be able to catch up with Azazel before he caught up with Bela and Sarah. When he couldn't run anymore, he walked, fast as he could, until he passed the point where they'd split up, and he came across the bridge.

There was blood on the grass. 

When he looked over the edge of the ravine, he saw two bodies.

They were too far away to see their faces clearly, but Kevin knew who they were, even as he began scrambling down to the bottom of the ravine. It took him a long time to get down—he slipped, tore his pants, scraped his knees, barely managing to fall on his feet on the last final tumble that brought him beside their bodies. 

Bela had been stabbed, but it looked like that Sarah had fallen—or been pushed—or something. He felt their pulses just to make sure, and their skin was cold and clammy from the river and their stopped hearts.

Kevin squatted beside them, his hands clenched together, his face wet with tears that he didn't know why he was shedding because he'd only just barely known these women, there was nothing to mourn, there should be nothing to mourn—and yet-- 

So many were dead.

The island was turning into a graveyard. 

And he couldn't stay here—he needed to get back, get back to the church. But it didn't feel right just leaving them here for the birds, for any wandering vulture to just pick their bones clean. 

He dragged the bodies up the bank, hiding them under what minimal protection the bridge could afford, putting them close together so that his jacket could cover both their faces.

Then it was time to go—and that's what bothered him the most. That John Winchester could be anywhere. That he could go to the church and find that John Winchester had already been there—that instead of reuniting with his friends, he'd just have to put more jackets over their dead faces.


	13. Sanctuary

With Sam at his heels, Victor met up with Dean and Charlie, and a beat up Azazel lying prone at his feet.

Dean still had a bloody limb in his hand, and Victor wasn't sure if Dean wasn't going to kill him right then and there. Lord knew he'd wanted to do that himself sometimes, after seeing what had happened the first time around. 

“You okay, buddy?” he said. 

Dean didn't say anything, and Victor tried to see which way this was gonna go, as if by being observant enough, as if he could analyze by the way Dean flexed his muscles, if he was just going to finish the job or just walk away. Victor wasn't sure what he'd do if Dean decided to finish it—it'd be easy to just let him do it—John Winchester, Azazel or whoever—deserved it. He deserved to die.

But Victor couldn’t forget that this was still Azazel, that Azazel was possessing John Winchester and maybe John Winchester was dead after the sheriff shot him but maybe he was alive. Could Victor bear that guilt? Of being complicit in the murder of an unarmed person, whether demon or not?

He looked down at Azazel, yellow eyes pale suns, and wondered if a demon, with their super strength, could ever seriously be unarmed?

Victor didn’t know the answer to that as he stared at Azazel, prone on the ground, hands raised in what looked like surrender.

But they were in the business of protecting people, saving people. Sure Dean protected people from monsters, and Victor was going to go in the business of protecting people from humans.

But where did this leave them? A beaten demon in the ground at their feet possessing the meatsuit of a man who was probably already dead?

He shook his head as he watched, as words that sounded like, “You okay, buddy?” came out of his mouth.

Now that he knew about the supernatural, he'd been thinking about what to do about it. What did you do when a demon took possession of a human? How do you judge something like this—a demon taking possession of a human—who could bail on judge, jury, and executioner—who could kill everyone involved on the way out. 

There had to be a way to resolve this that didn't look and sound like murder.

“Dean, buddy,” Victor said again.

He knew what John Winchester would have done, back when he'd been a hunter. He'd have killed any demon, no matter who they were possessing. 

But Victor guessed Dean hadn't grown up to be like his old man because he stepped away, back into Sam’s presence, his breath coming out in heavy gasps. “I don’t know.” 

Victor nodded. He knew what that felt like. The unknowing was a constant friend. Slowly, Victor walked towards the demon, the man.

He stood over the body—his bloody, bruised face—the mouth that was almost smiling, the yellow eyes. His gun was heavy in his hand. Bullets carved with the traps were loaded into it. Sure the spell made them useless now, but once they got rid of that—any bullet in this fucker's brain would take hold, rendering him useless, harmless, practically dead for all intents and purposes. Permanent dismissal—while an exorcism just gave them the chance to crawl out of hell again.

He thought about who he was—someone training to be an FBI agent, to hunt men who did bad things and do what? Give them over to the hands of the law? But there was no law here. The only sheriff who knew—who really knew—was dead. 

It didn't matter that this was a demon instead of a human. If he ruined him now, if he just shot him when he was down, he'd betray the badge he'd carry someday before it was even clipped to his belt.

He squeezed his eyes, shook his head, and, without a word, bent Azazel’s arms behind his back and cuffed his wristssup.

~*~

They went on to reconvene at the church, John Winchester in tow. Dean walked at the front with Sam while Charlie and Victor brought up the rear.

Dean was relieved he had—he didn't think he could look at John Winchester anymore today without feeling ill, without always feeling he was trying to catch his breath. His hands twitched at his sides, wondering if they shouldn't have just done away with him but maybe it was better this way.

Maybe Victor had made the right choice.

Maybe Dean shouldn't have made him make that choice. 

The guilt settled hard in his belly. He looked back, beyond John Winchester's shoulder, and tried to meet Victor's eyes, but he was looking at the ground. 

Not that Dean blamed him.

He should be a better friend, just like he should have been a better son, a better brother.

There was a crash in the woods, and it was stupid that they still jumped even though they had John Winchester in something like custody—but it was Kevin—Kevin looking like he'd gotten into a fight with the devil and came out on top. 

Dean ran over to him. “Hey you okay?”

Kevin shook his head. “No. I'm really not okay.”

“I know,” Dean said. “I know.”

“That's not what I mean.” Kevin licked his lips, eyes sliding away from Dean. “Bela and Sarah--” Kevin's voice hitched. “He killed them. And I couldn't stop him, even though I tried. And it just—it just really sucks.”

Dean's face fell, and he pulled Kevin in for a hug. Kevin let him, and then, after a few seconds, Kevin hugged him back. “I know, man,” Dean said. “I know.”

~*~

Maggie sat with her face pressed to the stained glass of the church. She wondered if the Virgin Mary carved from the glass treasured her sorrows in her heart.

She looked at the camera in her lap. It had caught so much, but there was still a lot more it hadn't.

What was she gonna do with this? Cut it into the movie her brother had always wanted to make, the ones that would make them big time hollywood stars? Or should she just pack it up in a box and let her parents deal with it since she’d be gone too. 

Was John Winchester targeting people in the town? Or just them—just the wedding guests, people here for Sam and Ruby's wedding?

Was Cassie still alive?

She bit her lip and looked at her dead, no-service phone.

This was probably Azazel’s fault too. Everything was Azazel's fault, and she hoped that when they found Sarah, they found him too, and that they killed him dead for all the shit he'd done—to her, to her brother, to his friends, and to everyone else on this island who were never going to come home to their loved ones again.

Something moved in the glass, and Maggie jerked her head up, but it was only the group coming back—Dean and Sam and Kevin and Victor and Charlie and—Azazel. Alive. Breathing. Walking on John’s, smirk on his face.

Maggie looked for Sarah and Bela, but they weren't in the group. That didn't mean anything though because Gordon and Madison had come back when they'd come up cold—they were huddled over a map now, trying to decide the best place to go back out there again.

“Guys,” she said. They all looked up at her. “They're back.”

Maggie ran out the door in front of Madison and Gordon, Ruby and Meg, and rushed out to meet them. “Why is he alive?” she demanded. “Who let this fucker live?" 

“We did,” Dean said. “we're gonna do this right. We're not gonna be like him.”

Maggie stepped back. “Killing him won't make us like him—it'd be an act of self defense.”

“I couldn't shoot him,” Victor said. “He was unarmed on the ground.”

“Yeah, he was unarmed now,” Maggie said, keeping pace with Victor as they strode towards the church, “but what about later?” 

“Look,” Sam said. “We decided that we wouldn't make a decision in the heat of the moment. It was a good decision. And there's a jail we can lock him up in and when we lift the spell we can do an exorcism and deal with whatever's left over okay?'

Maggie shook her head. “No way. Not okay.” She looked back at Gordon and Madison and Tamara who were standing close to each other in the background. Their look of mutual displeasure made her think she wasn't going crazy about being mad about this, and then did a move she would have said was a dick move but she didn't care. “C'mon, Gordon. Tell him.”

“Maggie’s right, Dean,” Gordon said. “He's dangerous. He'll kill again. We need to put him down now before anybody else. If he kills again, it'll be on our hands too.”

“No it won't,” Dean said, his voice fierce, “because we didn't choose to kill. Azazel did. I won't take the blame for that, I just won't.”

“That's so,” Gordon said. “But keeping him around isn’t the answer. Justice must be paid. Remember the job, Dean. It’s black and white--it’s not grey.” 

Dean bowed his head, remembering when they’d stood side by side, when they were able to commiserate about the job over drink, back when it’d been simpler. He thought about him then, how gentle they’d been with each other. “I know, but it’s not like we can kill him right now anyway.” He spread his hands. “The spell has made everything out of whack. We need to keep him around until it’s not.”

Gordon licked his lips. “As long as that’s all it is. I’m not fooling around with this one, Dean. I know it’s hard for you because of the face this demon wears, but we can’t make mistakes with this one.”

Dean nodded.

Gordon nodded back, but Madison trailed after Dean. “Where's Bela? And Sarah?”

Dean didn't pause, and it was Kevin who answered. “Dead.”

“Oh,” Maggie said. “Of course they are. Of course they fucking are.”

She stepped back when John Winchester passed her by, but he looked at her anyway. “They're not worth it, you know. Their souls were already hell's.”

“Don't you dare speak to me,” Maggie said, her voice shaking. “Don't you dare.”

“I didn't even kill your brother,” John Winchester said. “Why the hate, darling?”

“It's not hate,” Maggie said. “It's not even loathing. It's something that goes deeper than that. I hope you'll never know true happiness. And I hope your death is painful.” 

Azazel smiled. “Oh, it already was.”

“Well, I hope it is again then,” Maggie said.

Madison took Maggie's shoulder, and guided her away from him. “Don't worry—it's not worth it.”

But it was, it was worth it. Everything was worth it to see him suffer.

~*~

It took only a few minutes to come up with a plan of action. They were all going to go to the police station and put John Winchester into a jail cell.

Then Charlie and Madison were going to go to Ellen's lighthouse and see if they could get the radio working so they didn't have to wait for the authority figures to realize that something was amiss. The danger might be over, but there were still—things--to take care of. Bodies, death certificates, jail and investigations. 

Tamara and Kevin were going to take Mike’s boat and go to the mainland just in case Azazel and his witch accomplice had fucked with the radio at the lighthouse. One way or the other, the mainland was going to be alerted.

John Winchester was still denying killing Ed.

They figured they were mostly out of danger. The Witch-Accomplice might be running around loose, but the chances that they might attack was slim, they thought, the game was up with Azazel in custody, in their hands, and all they needed was for Missouri and Pamela and Meg and Ruby to put their heads together and lift the spell without murdering someone in the process.

Ruby and Sam were going to go back to the Dante residence, pick up a new change of clothes and some food for everyone, and pick up Pamela and Missouri along the way.

Everybody else was going to sit tight and make sure that John Winchester stayed put where he belonged. 

Everything was supposed to be okay.

Well, as okay as something like this could be.

~*~

Standing here, again, in their bedroom, in the place where they were going to be married, where they were going to solidify their plans, where she was going to make her father proud, seeing how the bed was neatly made, how the pictures hung straight on the smoothly painted walls--Ruby thought that it should be wrecked, the entire room should be a mess, a ruin in and of itself.

Her face tightened with some fragile and vulnerable,and she wiped her wrist hurriedly over her eyes. She couldn't let Sam see even though it would be easy to explain away that she was just sad, she was just so sad about her father. 

And she was. 

But that wasn't really it, was it?

They could have been great together. Sam and Ruby would have had something that no one else had had, she would have made him perfect for her father, and then he would have transformed the world in his image, and that would never have happened if it hadn't been for her—and now—it had all been for nothing.

Her father was dead, brutally murdered.

And she was still here—in this perfect little room with her perfect boyfriend who should have been her husband so that she could have been the bride of the Christ figure—isn't that what Revelations talked about? The bride of the church?

She closed her eyes against the tears, and then felt Sam's hands on her shoulders, rubbing soothing circles against the tight muscles there, like it wasn't creepy that he drank from her, like they were just ordinary human fiances, and she only remembered what it was like to be human, not that she actually felt like she was human—and she was better than this—she could have been so much better than this—she had been destined to be better than this, to be more than this.

She pressed her lips to his palm. 

“I'm so sorry,” he said. “About this whole thing. This whole mess." 

“It's not your fault,” she said.

He pressed her against his stomach, rubbing his hands down her belly, his thumbs finding the dimple of her navel under her thin cotton tee.

She didn't stop him.

He felt warm against her, not like the cold circles of hell she'd seen him grow up in.

It was so weird. This was so weird.

“We're safe now,” he said. “We could even--” and he let his hands trail lower. 

She pulled away from him. Her body was a temple. Her body had been a temple—to her father, to her god—but now?

“We should get ready,” she said.

Sam just nodded, with that pinched look over his teeth. He was unhappy.

Too bad.

She would never be happy again.

“I need to shower,” she said. “Can you get everything ready so that we can just up and leave? I don't want to stay here too long.” 

But when she went to the bathroom, she stood still because right there in the bathtub was a stag's head.

It wasn't over yet.

It was still going on.

“Sam,” she shouted. “Sam!” 

He skidded around the corner, and shouted as he jerked back. “What the hell!”

“We need to find the accomplice,” she said. “We need to find him now. And then we need to kill him. And then we can kill John Winchester when we return because I’m running scared. It won't—he killed my father and we can let the others have their illusion of the moral high ground all they want but I will have vengeance.” 

She pushed Sam out of the way, and made sure her knife was still buckled to her thigh. 

“We'll split up,” she said. “We'll cover more ground that way and have a better chance of finding whoever this asshole is.”

“Got it,” Sam said. He pressed a kiss to her lips. “Hunt well.”

It was better being out here in the woods, in the fresh air. It was good to have a target again—a goal. Something to give life meaning again even if it was just for a few brief moments.

That this was the person who had probably cast the spell that had killed Lucifer offered even more satisfaction. 

Her hand dropped to the handle of her knife. She would slit that witch's throat, pour that life blood into a cup, and tried to commune with her dead father because there had to be an afterlife for people like them, there had to be, and if humans could communicate as ghosts—then so could her father.

A twig snapped behind her—and she spun around. But it was only Sam. “I thought I told you that we were going to split up?”

“You did,” he said. He stepped closer to her. “But I needed to see you first.”

“We just saw each other,” Ruby said. “It couldn't wait?” 

Sam shook his head, his head bowed and shoulders slumped like he was a lost puppy instead of the future boy-king of hell. “I just needed to tell you something.”

“Well, I'm here. What is it?”

He came closer, and he put her hands on her, on her face, on her cheek, on her throat, so light, such careful, feathery caresses. His hand reached for her knife, and she understood then, he was hungry and weak--and he needed her, needed her like Lucifer had needed her, like Lilith had needed her--she bit her lips as he dragged the knife along the line of her neck, lapping at the blood as he did so.

He pressed his face into her hair, strands catching on his bloody lips, as he whispered, “I was the one who cast the spell to kill your father.” 

She blinked, tried to step back, but Sam's grip was too strong, pinning both her wrists in one huge palm. “What?” she said. It came out almost a laugh. “That’s not funny, Sam!”

“I was the one who cast the spell that killed your father,” he said again. 

Her face fell. “But why?” Had he known? Had she somehow let it slip the true plans they'd had in store for him? “How could you do that to me?” Then she switched tacks. “He loved you like a son.”

She held very still, her skin tuned to the way that Sam held his weight, the way he breathed, the steady, slow beat of his heart. Her eyes skimmed the area, looking for something, for anything. Her muscles coiled, readying to strike when they found the opportunity.

“And I guess that was the real problem, wasn't it?” he said, his fingers tracing the high rises of her cheekbones, following the path as the blood drained from her skin. “He's not my dad. Not my real father.”

“And like John Winchester wins father of the year award?” Ruby said. She tried to raise her fists, but Sam just pinned them to his chest, so their bodies were flush together. 

“No—he was a jerk. But Azazel.” Sam looked away from her for the first time, his eyes bright and distant. “He might not have been my bio dad, but he was my real father. Really took me under his wing, you know? Treated me like a real son. Didn't treat me like dirt like John did.”

“But he didn't treat you like a prince, like Father did,” Ruby said, her voice shaking. Her wrists twisted in Sam's fist, but all she succeeded was burning her skin, bruising and hurting but not so deep as what she was feeling inside. 

“I didn't need what Lucifer wanted,” Sam said.

“So you killed him? If you wanted to hurt me, there were easier ways.'

Sam pulled her close, kissed her forehead. “Oh no, baby, I didn't want to hurt you. But it had to be done, you see?”

“No, I don't see,” Ruby said. “Cut it out, Sam, and let me go!” If she didn’t take him seriously, he’d make a mistake, too hasty to peacock for her, and then she’d strike. 

“I didn't mean to drag you into this, but marrying you seemed like the only way to get Dean back to the island. But then Azazel told me about your big, magnificent plans—and I couldn't just let somebody else take Dean again, you see?”

Ruby tried to find her balance as the ground shifted under her feet. “This was all about Dean?”

“Of course, it was about Dean,” he said. “Why else would it be about anybody else?” 

“And where do I fit into that?” Ruby said, her spine prickling as Sam's grip tightened around her.

Sam shook his head. “You don't.” He shifted his hands, so that his grip became even more cruel, so that she was trapped in those large hands, the ones they had once held up to each other, the broads palms that dwarfed her fist, the way they’d spread over her belly, parting her legs--while his other hand raised the knife that Meg had made for her, and she struggled in earnest now, no longer trying to escape by playing mind games, struggled hard enough that he was forced to push her up against a tree, pinning her with his hand, his thighs, his knees, as he slid a knife through the bones of her ribcage, piercing her fragile, human heart. 

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry.”

She looked down at the hilt buried in her body. The knife forged from the fragments of the sword of Abaddon.

She tried to say the words, not forgiven, but it was hard to speak with blood filling her mouth and falling out of the hole he'd made in her body as he finally let her go so that she crumpled to the ground---and died.

~*~

Tamara was glad that Kevin had apparently lost interest in talking. She didn’t feel like talking either.

Guilt hung low in her stomach, gave her heartburn, made her mouth desert dry.

This was the easy way (unless they were found and they were killed under the trees).

But once they got on the water, they would be safe. The closer they got to the mainland, they’d be safe.

While the others, while Gordon, wouldn’t be.

It felt like a coward’s way out, choosing this route. Maybe that’s why none of the others had called it—but Kevin and Tamara? They’d both paid the price seven years ago.

They deserved to be safe.

They deserved to live.

Isaac had told her to live long until she was old and grey, and that’s what she was going to do.

She’d already killed the demon who’d killed him.

And when they brought the coastguard back for John’s corpse, for them to help clean up this mess, the spell would be lifted, and she’d be able to kill Azazel for taking her daughter in her own sweet time.

If she wanted to.

She felt guilty about that too.

Killing the demon who’d taken her husband hadn’t brought him back. Killing Azazel wouldn’t bring her daughter back. 

Killing another demon would just be killing another demon. And she wanted to kill, sure, but another part of her wanted to rest.

Wanted this life of killing and the fear of being killed to rest for good.

She wanted to be safe.

More than she wanted vengeance.

 She wondered if this is what Isaac was talking about when she had sought him out just days ago. 

Would he be proud of her? Would he be ashamed of her? 

He was dead. He could feel none of those things now. 

Tamara bit her lip, her hands closing into fists. It felt like betrayal, but she could remember making no promises to anyone.

So who was she betraying by striking out for the safety of the boats and the sea?

Herself? Her body? Her soul?

She shook her head, squeezed her eyes shut.

Maybe her rage would return like righteous hellfire when she slept. But today, everything was ash.

Everything was ruined. 

She had been brought low, and all she could think was that this was okay for even phoenixes rose from the ash, and she would rise again2—when she was ready.

She stretched out her arms, feeling the pull in her shoulders.

And when she rose again—who knew what she would do then? Maybe she would kill Azazel. Maybe she wouldn’t. Maybe she’d stay with Missouri and Pamela. Maybe she’d strike out across the states, wandering, not lost, just someone who hadn’t quite found a home yet. 

And why should she be ashamed of that? To live?

Why must she be the one that always sacrificed?

And when they found Mike’s boat, decaled with angel wings because wow cliché, she didn’t look back at the island, not once. 

She was no Lot’s wife. She would not be turned into a salt lick for the deer—not anymore. 

~*~

Charlie and Madison struck out through the forest. According to Ellen, dirt paths had once lead to the lighthouse, but due to general disuse and lack of care, they had become overgrown, and were virtually indistinguishable from the forest itself.

Charlie was inclined to agree with that assessment as the snarling brush snagged her jeans, scraping her skin through the denim, and generally being a pain in the ass to walk through. But she kept her eyes on the smudge of pale grey rubbing up along side the strip of darker grey that served as the sky, and thanked Tash and all his bolts of smiting and lightning that fell from above and did not get caught on hooks halfway down3, that it was cloudy and cool instead of hot and sunny because she’d be burned to a crisp otherwise.

She looked at her pale arm. It looked a bit red underneath the freckles. Hashtag incredible hashtag fucking incredible--there didn’t even need to be a sun out and she was still burning.

Which was better than being tortured and slowly torn apart while still breathing, as John Winchester was probably intending to do if he ever got out. 

“Can I have a sip of water,” she called out to Madison, who was striding ahead, silent through the forest while Charlie was making enough racket to scare all the game away if they were the hunters or to draw the hunters to them if they were prey. She tried to walk quietly but it was really hard and she wasn’t quite sure how Madison managed to do it.

Once upon a time, they had both made quite a racket in the woods, but that was before Madison got bit, and before--before Charlie had moved to a town that had public transportation and actual pavement instead of just a tramped hard dirt road.

Madison paused so that Charlie could catch up, then handed her the water bottle. It was half empty, and Charlie tried to curb her thirst so she wouldn’t just drain it all. 

There was the river, of course, but Sarah and Bela had fallen into the river. Their dead bodies had. They’d bled into it, and sure Kevin had said that he’d dragged them out on the banks--nope, she couldn’t bare think of it. 

“You okay?” Madison said, taking the bottle from her where she had let it fall on her lips without drinking.

“I just--” Charlie said. 

“It’s almost over,” Madison said.

Charlie caught her hand. “Madison--” and her voice caught because it had been easy to pretend that nothing had happened, to take up with each other from a few pages back before they had left off. “We haven’t talked about it.”

“We don’t need to,” Madison said, but she didn’t look at Charlie, and she could see the tremor of her breath in the soft yield of her throat.

“I need to,” Charlie said. “We didn’t end it right, and we’re pretending like it never happened. That’s not fair to either of us.” 

Madison rolled her eyes and gestured around them. “Do you really think talking about how you ran from me like I was freak right now, right here is really the best thing we can do? I mean, we could be interrupted at any moment by John Winchester’s witch, and you know how I hate that.”

“I think that we could die without talking about it,” Charlie said, “and that would hurt more than anything.”

Madison scoffed. “I sincerely doubt that. We’d be dead and wouldn’t feel anything.” She looked up at the sky and Charlie swore that if she said something like c’mon we’re wasting daylight, she was gonna--”we have to hurry. I don’t want to be out here stuck in the forest like this if I can’t wolf out.”

“Is that a thing you can do now?” Charlie said, struggling to keep up with her. “Shift as you please?”

“Sometimes. But always during the full moon. No way around that one.”

 “Did you ever kill anyone?” Charlie asked, then bit her tongue. She shouldn’t have asked that. What a bad question. Did you ever kill anyone. Jeeze. Smooth, Charlie, smooth. 

Madison paused. “No,” she said. “But only because I had help. Sheriff Mills believed in me--or I thought she did.” Madison shook her head, her lips curling around her teeth, and Charlie could see a little of the wolf snarl in it. “But I see now that it was only because of the truce.” She laughed then, shaking her shoulders like she’d just stepped out of the river.

Charlie realized that she’d never yet seen Madison as a wolf. “Just because there was a truce doesn’t mean she didn’t believe in you.”

Madison rolled her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Charlie said. “I’m sorry I ran from you. I was scared, and I didn’t know how to deal. I felt like you were shutting me out--”

“--I was--”

“--and I didn’t know how to react.” Charlie paused, her arms lifted from her side. “Sometimes I think how we lounged on the grass that first time we saw each other after so long, and I think we could have had that for these past seven years, and I hate what happened.”

Madison walked back towards Charlie. “I hate it too. But it’s done now, you know?” She punched her lightly on the arm. “And now you can like--email me or something.”

“Or you could come back with me.” The words left Charlie’s mouth before she realized, and she put her hand over her lips.

“And be what--an American Werewolf in Los Angeles?” Her voice was light, but Madison’s eyes were large and serious, the smile not reaching them at all. “I can’t do that. I know how to control myself here. There--with all the people, the lights, the sounds--I couldn’t risk it.”

Charlie nodded her mouth, trying to swallow through the dry-mouth that had grown like a barren desert over her tongue. “Of course. Duh. I don’t even know what I was thinking.”

“Oh come on, don’t be like that,” Madison said. She gripped her tight in a hug, then bent her head and kissed her forehead. And when Charlie raised her face to look at her, to really look at her high cheekbones and her soft, warm brown eyes, the way her smile was always curving around her lips, she kissed her cheeks, and then finally her mouth, long, slow, lingering. “We should get going,” she whispered into Charlie’s ear. “We’re not out of this yet.”

They walked in silence through the woods, though this time Madison slowed down enough so that Charlie could keep pace with her, slowed down enough so that they could walk hand in hand. 

The lighthouse came into sight eventually--it was dilapidated, and where the spray of the ocean cast off on its roof, the wood was rotting.

Nobody had lived here for a long time, and Charlie shivered from the chill breeze that came from the sea, and wished, more than she ever had before, that the beacon could still be lit, and they could call for the aid of Gondor, but the chances of relighting it were nil and besides--radio waves could travel farther than macguivered morse code. 

Madison kicked down the door, and it didn’t take them long to find a dilapidated radio, just like Ellen said there’d probably be. It’s true that hacking was more Charlie’s line of work instead of this mechanical gizmo stuff but, as she carefully removed the back and looked at the wires, she thought she could get it up and running again. 

“I’m gonna keep an eye out on the perimeter while you do that,” Madison said. “If you run into any trouble, just scream.” She dropped a wink. “Like the damsel in distress, okay? Or, you know, other ways. I was pretty good at making you scream myself, as I recall.” She dropped her voice to a whisper. “Everybody could hear.”

Charlie waved her off, blushing furiously.  “Yeah, yeah yeah.” 

~*~

It was easy enough for Maggie to slip away without anybody noticing. Dean and Gordon and Victor were still arguing about Azazel even though she was sure that boat had sailed. Meg paced the room, looking at her wrist even though she wasn’t wearing a watch. Probably waiting for Ruby to come back with Sam.Then Ellen was still stunned with grief for Jo. Maggie wished she could sit quiet and still with that sheer determination to survive that Maggie wished she felt, that raw determination. Wished she was stronger to deal with this, but she wasn’t, not really. 

She still didn’t know how she was going to tell her Mom that Ed was dead, that Harry was dead, that Spruce was dead.

Out of all the bodies they’d found, they still hadn’t found theirs.

She wanted to laugh at that. It was funny, wasn’t it?

Irony? Or something like that.

Cassie would know--she was good with words, with the structure of things, so she would definitely know.

It seemed only perfectly reasonable for Maggie to slide from the chair--one of those cheap office ones that you couldn’t really go round and round in because there wasn’t enough slip and slide, and the wheel was about to come off and it was just a piece of junk really who even sat in these anymore? 

(No one because Azazel had slaughtered the deputies and the office administrators.)

Nobody noticed her leave because they were too involved with their own problems. She slipped out the door and breathed in the air, that seemed fresh, betraying no hint of the death and devastation.

Were those roses? And then she saw them--pink ones--clustered at the door. There was even a honey bee dipping in and out.

Imagine that. Bees disappearing and here was one, right here, after everyone had died. 

Maggie blinked her eyes and refocused her gaze on the street. There was the cafe, the kind that served black, bold coffee with not enough sugar or cream, pestering you and giving you a hard time if you asked them to make it sweet and sugary, like that starbucks confection crap as they described.

(But Maggie loved Starbucks, she loved Starbucks so much. Yes, she knew it was an evil corporation but their coffee was just so good and her parents always gave her gift cards how could she refuse.)

And then there was the fishing tackle store, and she wondered if that’s where Azazel had found the spade to kill old Lucifer. And beyond that, was the shop that sold seeds and powders and home remedies--not really a witch store but maybe an upcoming witch could have found some of the ingredients they needed.

The gun store--blithely named the hunting store--and she wondered if having a gun would be any better. And then, just beyond there, was the newspaper shop, and Maggie’s feet drew her on towards it, and she wondered at the silence of the Saturday morning, wondered if the town was so quiet because they were with their families or if they had been murdered in their beds.

Red closed signs dotted the windows.

Maybe they’d heard that John Winchester, bogeymen of the newborns, had returned, and they’d shut themselves in and hid, hoping that his beef was with the wedding, and not with them. 

But people like John or Azazel didn’t just get satisfied, Maggie thought dully as she pulled the chain to the bell at the office. Like, the first massacre hadn’t satisfied him so he’d done a second one.

They were next. They probably knew it, but they just didn’t want to believe it.

Cassie would know what it all meant. 

And it was Cassie who opened the door--she had bags under her eyes, wearing the same clothes she’d worn when she’d last seen her, hair in disarray but still beautiful. “Maggie?” she said, and her eyebrows wrinkled like she was concerned, like she couldn’t quite believe what was happening. “What’s going on?”

Maggie shook her head, palms raised up. She was laughing. “I don’t know. Everybody’s dead.” She bit her lip. “Well, not everybody. Just almost everybody.” And then she wasn’t laughing anymore, she was just crying, and it was so embarrassing crying at all, but to cry in front of a stranger, in front of a future first date? 

The worst.

Ed would never have let her live it down, which made her cry all the harder. 

“Okay,” Cassie said, guiding her in by the shoulder. “Okay. Just--tell me what happened, okay?”

Maggie raised her camera. “I can show you.”

Cassie looked at it, arms hugged close to her stomach. “Do I want to?”

“You’ll probably regret it,” Maggie said. “I know I do.”

Cassie steeled herself, then held out her hand. Maggie gave it to her and collapsed on the floor against Cassie’s desk as she plugged the camera into the computer and opened the files one by one.

After the first few, she got up, made them both coffee in cheap styrofoam cups (not even making a comment as Maggie poured packet after packet of sugar into the brew), and then, hands gathered around the warm, steaming cup, she kept watching.

Maggie closed her eyes, and slept.

~*~

Meg paced the cramped offices of the police department. In the room out back were the jail cells, empty save for the one that held John Winchester, and how he prowled out of bounds of the trap was enough to make her heart burn. Of course, technically, she could walk out of demon traps too, but why would anybody bother trapping a tamed, defanged, declawed demon?

She flung herself into the office, clumping her motorcycles boots onto the desk, watching the mud drip from her soles onto the wood. 

Sheriff Mills would have told her to get her feet of the desk, but Sheriff Mills was also long gone by now, and she should be glad, having wished it upon her often enough. But if anybody should have killed the sheriff, it should have been her and Ruby.

Speaking of whom, Ruby should have been back right now. Along with Sam. 

Meg shook her head. 

Sight of so much blood would surely have made Sam thirsty--it was a wonder he’d kept it together. They were probably doing it, right there, right on top of a pile of metaphorical corpses. Sam, after the murder of his future father-in-law, of his future mother-in-law, of the person closest to a mother that he actually had even if it wasn’t biological--screwing around with his fiance, getting his mouth red with her (what’s black and white and red all over, came the distant sound of Ruby joking about the nuns slaughtered in the first massacre--but not saints like them this time, just her with her white wedding dress and her black eyes and the streaming slits in her skin that Sam milked her from)--

She was up again on her feet, pacing, banging open the doors and the cupboards until Victor told her to cut that shit out.

And that was when she picked the only locked door on the sheriff’s desk--a quiet enough activity she hoped they could all agree--and found there under a pile of folders and fake bottom, a gun.

A colt revolver to be exact.

A classic.

The kind of weapon gunslingers of the old west would have strapped to their hip while they made deals with demons at the crossroads under a full moon, voice wet with greed and need and whiskey.

It felt heavy in her palm, settled nicely in her hand. She raised it, aiming it out the window, sighting it on a barren tree.

The aim was a little crooked, but if you were close enough, it wouldn’t matter.

It was an old gun too, full of memory. Basically a person, what with all it’d seen, and she knew better than most how the very best of them could forge whoever they wanted in whatever they needed.

They could have been old friends, her and this gun, like she was old friends with Lilith and Lucifer, their champion blade when Abaddon disappeared, her own sword shattering without her presence to guide it.

She flicked the barrel of the gun open, saw that all six holes were nestled snug with bullets.

This would do. This would do nicely. 

She cleared a spot on the sheriff’s floor, and prepared the spells. It would have been better if she’d had everything she needed--the powders and the stones to help focus her energy, a circle to give her power strength. 

But it was only one gun, and one person who needed to be dead. She was not changing the fundamental nature of the gun, which was to kill, but to specify.

And all she needed for that was blood--hers and a little something of the target. 

They would fight her on it--of course they would, but she would have Azazel. She would have his blood or his hair or the pulpy meat of his sulfer-threaded heart, and her vengeance would be satisfied, and so would the hunger of the gun she was about to stoke.

She slit her palm with a knife, letting the blood bleed onto the floor as she paced into a circle. Placing the gun in the center of her circle of blood, she squatted over it, resting her hands on the metal, and spoke words in a language that mankind had already long forgotten.

Old, broken words, chipped and carved by swords and razor, lashed to ribbons by which--words which only those lost to hell would recognize. 

Perhaps, Meg considered, Cain would have recognized them. Perhaps, he had even spoken them as he slew his brother, and perhaps that is what gave them their power.

Or perhaps not. She was less interested in its history--that was more Ruby’s deal--than with its results. 

The gun shivered under her palm--hungry in a way it had never been before.

Meg licked her lips. Time for the bullseye.

She rose to her feet, joints popping back into place from her long, whispered crouch over the gun. The others were still doing whatever it was they were doing--arguing the morality of something when she was about to end it here and now, even though her muscles shivered and trembled from reaching back so far into the past for the spell that she needed, even though her will sagged after bending the gun to it.

There was still work to be done, and she had to do it so that when Ruby returned, the gun would be waiting, and she would give it to her in consolation because, though Lucifer was father to them both, it was Ruby whom he had entrusted with his most faithful-- 

But Meg flinched away from the thought, blinking back something that stung like smoke, and tilted her head when Azazel busted through the door, the locked door leading to his locked cell, and broke Ellen’s neck with a twist of his wrist. Instantly, Dean and Gordon and Victor were on him, Gordon hanging back a little because he was a smart man with a sense of self preservation which Meg respected, but they all knew how this was going to end: they didn’t have a chance at all against someone like Azazel. 

He was already beating the shit out of Victor--who spared no words for him, nothing to taunt him, nothing to mock him, but merely shouted for Dean and Gordon to get the fuck out of there. 

Dean didn’t want to listen because he thought he had to be a big damn hero, but Gordon pulled him back, kicking and screaming, and they shoved their way out of the police station, scattering to the next poor building they thought they could call safe.

Meg shook her head. 

Fools. 

This was like hell, she realized, as she walked from Sheriff Mills office, the gun still heavy and jumpy in her hand, itching to feed a bullet to someone’s heart.

In hell, especially in the beginning, you looked for a safe place. You looked for a place that wouldn’t hurt.

But those places never lasted for long.

They had been made to be taken away.

Victor bled beneath Azazel’s fists, his face looming over him even though he put up a good fight and it looked like it would be over for Victor until Meg jumped onto his back, thighs clenching around the middle of the man once named John Winchester, as she pried back his head by the throat and stared into the yellow eyes of the man she’d once called father, who’d once called her daughter (and, miracle of miracles, he was the one who had called her that first, and Lucifer had followed his lead, how could she not have seen it until now), and hissed, “Hey Dad, did ya miss me?”

Her weight shifted his leverage in Victor’s favor, and he scurried from under Azazel until he nearly fell off the desk, leaning on it for support as he tried to drag himself toward the door.

Meg just wrapped her legs around John Winchester even tighter as he tried to buck her off, pulling his head back by his long hair until it began to come up from the scalp, until his blood mixed with hers, until the bone in his neck creaked threateningly, warningly, until his thin skin stretched tight against his esophagus, baring his vulnerable throat, and she wished, once more, for the knife she’d given Ruby--

And then she saw Victor, already rolling up his sleeves, ready to re-enter the fray even though he could hardly stand.

“Run, you idiot,” Meg screamed at him over Azazel’s grunt. “I got this.”

And, probably for the first and only time in his life she figured, he actually listened to her and ran. 

She rode John Winchester, thighs pressed up against his neck, like that time she’d climbed on board a mechanical bull4. Not drunk like her companions because demons didn’t get drunk, but pretending to be drunk--and she dug her heels against his rib cage until he slammed her so hard against the wall, her head whiplashed back against the hard wood, dazing her because of the spell his witch had cast on her so that instead of shaking it off like she could have done before, she just slid from his back to the floor, curling in pain as he unleashed a fury of kicks against her ribs, her abdomen, and her soft belly until she coughed up and choked on her own blood.

She laughed because pain always found her again. She knew what would come next. As it had happened in hell, so it would happen again, and it would be Alastair again who would tear her flesh from her bones, breaking her so that he could make her into somebody he could be proud of again.

He knelt beside her, gripped her broken jaw in his hand like she was a wayward child and he her loving father, and whispered in her ear, “Not yet, baby girl. I’m not ready for you yet.” He pressed himself in close to her, and she flinched away even though there was nowhere to go because of the wall on her right and him at her left--

and he put a kiss on her forehead.

“There,” he said, “that better? Now stay put, like a good girl, okay?”

And then he walked out the door, leaving her gasping for air as her lungs drowned in her own blood. 

She only waited until his footsteps disappeared before struggling to open her bruised eyes. Azazel must have overestimated how the spell would affect her or underestimated how badly he had beaten her--because even though she was stronger than a mere human body, even though there was a shadow of the demon essence still within her, she was mortal, basically or even close enough to human--and she knew bodies enough to know that this one was failing and, bound as she was by Jodi’s truce and double bound again by the spell to something resembling humanity, if this body died, she died with it.

There wasn’t much time left.

She looked down at her hands--strands of John’s hair were caught in bloody clumps under her fingernails--but the gun was gone, must have dropped it in the fight. 

Struggling to her hands and knees, crying out against the pain, she slowly moved her head around to look for it--and there it was, right under the desk where it must have slid.

It was agony to crawl towards it--but she did. She let it rest in her hands as she let herself slump against the desk. Her blood pressure was dropping, her heart failing, and it felt like one of her lungs was collapsed. She rolled her eyes up, neck a long line that she imagined Cas kissing or Ruby licking their way up to her lips--and let her eyes flood black, let herself push against the sorry sack of bones and flesh and remember the times without a body, the times she’d been most free--

She wouldn’t be able to make it to the circle of blood she’d drawn in Sheriff Mill’s office, but that was okay. She could make a new one--it wasn’t as if her blood were in short supply, after all. 

She wasn’t as strong a witch as Ruby had been in her human days, but she was strong enough for this.

She drew a new one--sloppy and shaking--a circle that would have shamed her mistresses, her mothers, her fathers--around herself and the gun in her lap. She pressed her fingers mussed with John Winchester’s blood and hair against the muzzle and spoke the words through her bruised and torn lips, the words of Cain. 

The gun grew warm in her hand as the spell set hold, and she smiled faintly.

Even when she was dying, she was still a goddamn badass.

But Ruby couldn’t get caught unprotected--not like Meg did. Ruby needed to be a demon again to fight against Azazel, needed to be a demon with her whole power in the palm of her hand. She struggled to bring to mind the spell they had argued about, but everything was foggy, fuzzy. 

The spell had said for the pure of heart and she thought that had meant a good person--but maybe not.

Maybe not. 

She was dying anyway--what did she have to lose?

She looked out the open door--and wished Ruby was here. Their magic was never so strong as when they cast it together.

Slowly, Meg unbuttoned her purple shirt so that it fell open to reveal her sternum, and then she found the spot where her weak heart beat feebly against her palm. She bit her lip, prepping herself for the pain, as she carved through the thin layer of skin that covered the muscle, ripped through that then pushed against the bones that caged her heart until they splintered into sharp shards, and finally--she pulled out her heart, still beating, still warm and, against its meat, she murmured the spell that would restore the balance of the supernatural and her natural order, her failing body summoning the words in wet whispers as she focused on Ruby, her voice and words anchoring her just long enough. 

When, finally, she spoke the last word, she let her heart roll from her hand as she leaned against the desk, the colt still in her lap, finger resting lightly on the trigger as she felt in her bones the soft shift as Azazel’s spell lifted, cast aside by her counter spell. It hurt too much to laugh, but she wanted to.

After all this time, there still were surprises. Maybe this was really was the age of miracles and wonder. 

The heart on the floor stopped beating, just like her first heart had all those centuries ago. If it hadn’t been the touchstone of the spell, she could have covered up this whole in her chest and got back up to rejoin Ruby and the others--but what kind of sacrifice was a loss that you gained right back again?

Meg’s eyes fluttered closed as her grip loosened on the gun.

Maybe--another witch could have done it without using blood magic. Maybe another witch could have cast a spell without using a life to power it.

But that kind of magic? That had never been for her. Never even been offered to her--and what did that matter anyway? Was she going to cry about it?

Purity of heart--purity of intentions? Maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe that’s all she’d ever needed--that, and a little bit of blood.

And that was good enough for her.

~*~

Walking under the forest like this, Madison missed the presence of the wolf more than ever. It had been hard, at first, when she’d been first bitten, because she hadn’t asked for this--it was just something someone had done to her, and she’d never asked for this, asked for her body to change like this-- 

but seven years was a long time. And there were times where she looked in the mirror and saw the wolf gleaming out, and she hated that part of her, hated the worry and the responsibility she’d never signed up for.

And other days, wolfed out on the forest under a quarter moon--she loved it.

And other, other days, like when she was vaccuming grey wolf hairs from her carpet, it was just something that was part of her, like her arm.

But she’d never expect to have missed it--and she could smell a little better than she did as a human and she could hear a little better than she did as a human and she could walk a little more quiet than she did as a human--but the wolf was sleeping, hibernating under the power of the spell, and she needed the wolf to wake up now because anybody could just sneak up on her now-- 

\--and anybody just did.

She noticed just a second too late before she whirled around, long hair flying over her shoulder--to see that it was only Sam. “Jesus, you scared me.”

He smiled back at her, huffing slightly. “I seem to have that effect on people.”

“Maybe if you didn’t sneak up on them.” Madison shook her head. “If you’re here to check up on the radio, Charlie’s still fixing it, and she gets grumpy when people interrupt her groove.” She put up air quotes around the word. “Anyway, I thought you were with Ruby--where’s she?”

Sam bowed his head, eyebrows wrinkling in that weird, self-conscious way he got, when he was intensely aware of it, of his presence. She remembered thinking it was cute when she’d first seen him all those years ago in college. 

Weird how some things never changed.

“She’s dead.” His foot shuffled aimlessly in the grass.

Madison blinked. “What?” Had she heard that right? “Are you sure?”

He raised his head, his puppy-dog eyes locked on hers before turning strangely hard. “Of course I’m sure. I killed her myself.” 

Madison backed away from him, skin prickling, trying to reach out for the wolf, but she was too far away. “That’s not funny, Sam.”

He raised his hands like he was placating a dog as he advanced on her, and then there was that quirking frown again. “That’s what Ruby said too, when I confessed my sins to her. But you know? It’s not really meant to be a joke.”

“You’re scaring me, Sam!” she said, stepping backwards into a tree trunk that scraped at the small of her back.

His smile was long, drawn-out, slow. A predator smile. “Good.” Then he sighed. “I guess that spell is making you kind of slow, isn’t it? Hell, if you were at full werewolf potential, you would have smelled Ruby’s blood on me a mile away, and killed me even quicker than that--that is,” he said, and he lifted his eyebrows up in concern, the same kind of concern one would ask a some-times friend if they were feeling better after calling in sick from work -- “if you do kill people these days? Or would they put you down like a dog if you did? I’m kind of confused on how Jody kind of worked that whole thing.” He tapped his fingers against his lips. “What would your new best friend Gordon say, I wonder?”

“Are you possessed?” She couldn’t keep running from Sam forever. Not now--not when he had the advantage of the better ground. 

Sam shook his head. “No such luck for you, I’m afraid. I’m human as they come--and men like Gordon and my brother have their codes, you know, about monsters and humans. It’s like customer service with them--the humans are always right. And you’re always wrong.”

Madison frowned. “Your brother? Who the fuck’s your brother?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Dean. Dean’s my brother. Do you want me to spell it out for you? Wow, that spell must have done a whammy on your head--” and then he was laughing, like he’d said a funny kind of joke, like he was some college fratboy. 

“You’re the witch,” she said, slowly. “You’re the one who did--all of this.”

“Ding, ding ding!’ Sam cried, clapping his hands. “But get this, you give me way too much credit. Azazel did a lot of it too. Like he killed that chick with the English accent and her girlfriend--” his eyes narrowed, and she could already see him honing in on the way her blood drained from her face. “Oh come on, you didn’t like them, did you?” Then, suddenly, he was right up in her face, his voice deep, accusing, almost shouting but not quite-- “You didn’t even know them!" 

But that was all Madison needed. He was so big, and she was so small, it was easy to duck and slide underneath his mammoth arms, and to speed down the hill that he’d been blocking her from accessing, and she ran until her foot tripped over a rock (which would never have happened except for the spell, because if it had, she’d already shifted into a wolf by now and then let Sam catch her then) but as it was, she couldn’t fight through the dampening fog to access the wolf, the bite, and she rolled and tumbled down the hill, rocks bruising her shoulders, her thighs, her calves until she crashed to the bottom, and lay stunned as Sam’s own noise of pursuit rang warning bells in her head.

She rolled over on her hands and knees but Sam threw his weight on top of her, collapsing her to her belly, and knocking the air for a second time from her lungs.

He flipped her to her back, sitting high on her chest so that he could pin her arms to the forest floor with his knees, while her legs writhed helplessly beneath him, seeking for leverage, as his weight crushed her rib cage as he raised an ugly looking knife above his head.

There was dried blood on it.

Madison struggled, but he was too heavy, she could barely breathe, and she could find no leverage to use against him. She pressed herself against the forest floor, and refused to close her eyes as her wrists bruised under his knees.

His hair hung in a ratty curtain, framing his cheeks and his wide eyes. “It’s not silver,” he said, his voice thick from the chase--”but then, it doesn’t have to be silver, does it?”

As his arm came stabbing down, pressure popped in Madison’s ears--and the wolf woke just as the knife slid past her rib bones and punctured her heart. His head jerked up, as if he had heard something or felt something, and Madison reigned herself in, not even breathing, not even blinking, not even let the wolf show through her eyes--holding herself in an iron fist that she had not had to use since the days she’d first been turned.

He touched her neck with his fingers--there was no pulse (but how could there be with his knife still piercing her heart)--and he pulled back as if satisfied.

The knife gave way from her body with a wet, squelchy sound. Sam wiped it clean on her pants before pausing, and, looking thoughtfully at her, he slapped her quick across the cheek. 

She didn’t resist the blow. She didn’t allow herself to flinch. She just let it happen, just let it drive her cheek into the dirt.

He picked himself up, brushed the dirt from his knees, and walked away from her back up the hill they’d tumbled down, back towards the lighthouse where Charlie was.

Once he crested the hill and disappeared to the other side, Madison peeled herself from the ground, pounded her chest with her fist until she felt her heart beating again, until she could breathe again--and then she closed her eyes, and welcomed the wolf like an old friend--and sped after Sam on four, grey legs patched with black. 

He may have been witch enough to cast a spell powerful as all that--of course, it was nice when demons helped--but he wasn’t much of one if he couldn’t even tell when his own spell had been lifted.

Good, because she could use that against him.

She caught up with him easily--he wasn’t even running--and she loped a circle around him until she sat down in his path, waiting, gold eyes fixed on the road ahead, on the sharp lookout for Sam’s shadow stretching across the grass.

And when it came, she rose to all fours, her hackles raised, her lips snarling around the fangs of her teeth.

Sam stopped short when he saw her, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Madison--you sly dog.” 

But she never gave him the time to finish the word before leaping towards him, jaws going for the throat. His fist caught her in the ribs as he dodged neatly out of his way.

“Dude, it’s really been a while since you’ve hunted a human, huh?” he said. “I guess that’s what happens when you let yourself get tamed. Much as I’d like to kill you for real--I’ve got bigger fish to fry.” He put his fingers in his lips and blew a shrill whistle.

Sulfur rose from the ground, and with it came a hound--a hound lean from starvation, ears torn and bit, stump of a tail smoking as it wagged slowly side to side, standing beside his master’s heel.

Hellhound.

 Sam slapped his muzzle before ruffling the coat around its neck. “Good boy,” he said. “What a good boy. Doggie want a treat?” And he stretched out his finger toward Madison.

It surged after her like a fire through a newly opened door, and Madison barely had time to flatten her ears against her skull and brace herself against the impact before she went tumbling head over heels again--only this time with a snarling hellhound looking for the easiest way to her throat. 

She could have probably managed against just Sam--but she couldn’t handle a fully grown, probably tortured hellhound, while part of her was thinking like Madison the human instead of Madison the wolf. And she would need to survive this so that she could help Charlie against Sam, because that was the only reason that Sam had done this, to keep her busy long enough for him to pick off another one of her friends.

Not just her friends--their friends.

She closed her eyes and, when she landed at the bottom of the hill again, the hellhound circling her like he wanted to play first, she lifted her head and howled like there was a full moon to howl to--and then she surrendered to the beast inside of her, to the monster she’d caged up for seven years, and for the first time in a long time, became the wolf in mind as well as in body and tasted ash and sulfur as they circled each other, snarling around their fangs.

~*~

Charlie poked around the radio, adjusting the wires and its receptors, until she found a channel that caught only a little snow instead of nothing but static. She tried a tentative hello, but received no answer in return. “Mayday?” she tried. “S O S? Don’t make me sing ABBA because I totally will.”

A voice came back, garbled, and she thought that it was identifying itself as the Coastguard, but then there was nothing. She tried again and again, twisting the dial to find different channels, but either the radio was too busted or she just wasn’t that good of a mechanic. 

She jumped when she heard the howl--a long aroo that made her skin crawl, hairs standing up in a sea of goose bumps. 

Was that Madison? If she was howling, then that meant she was a wolf again--which meant the spell had somehow been broken, which mean--Azazel could be killed. 

But if she were a wolf again, that might mean she was in trouble which was less than cool. 

Charlie jerked towards the door, but stopped, the radio resting, heavy in her hand, the useless thing. Shaking her head, she set it down, then opened her phone so that she could record herself saying, _Mayday Mayday or s.o.s or whatever, but we’re on Dante’s Island and a fair few people have been murdered. Please send help asap - mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Charlie Bradbury on Dante’s Island, please send help_ \--” and set it to repeat on a loop until the battery ran low.5

Then she forged her way out through the meadow to find Madison, and to make sure she was okay, because the last time Madison had run off under shadow of the wolf, Charlie hadn’t seen her for seven years and that was not going to happen again.

She’d only gotten a few feet before she bumped into Sam Winchester--broad in the shoulders, and brows wrinkled in worry. “Charlie!” he said, and he put his hand on her shoulders. “Was there a radio in the lighthouse?” 

She leaned against him because he was strong and big and she was tired and small. “Yeah, there was.” She lifted her head. “But it’s not working, Sam, and I’m pretty sure that I heard Madison--did you see her or hear anything?” She stood on tiptoes, as if that would give her enough height to peer over Sam’s shoulder.

“Are you sure?” he said, looking around with her. “I didn’t hear anything coming up. Or see anything. So far, this seems to be the quietest place. The place least touched by John Winchester.” He smiled her sadly, looping a stray hair back around her ear. 

“I know I heard something,” Charlie insisted.

“I’m not saying you didn’t,” Sam said, raising his hands placatingly. “But there are other dogs on the island you know?”

Charlie stepped back from him, skeptical. “I’m pretty sure I’d know the sound of a wolf.” 

Sam mirrored her posture. “Have you even heard a wolf?”

Charlie may have grimaced at the ground. “Maybe on youtube.” 

He laughed, his smile boyish and wide, like how he used to smile back on college. “Maybe on youtube? And you’re worried about one lone howl?” He reached out his hand and ruffled her head. “Say, have you seen Ruby? She was going to make her way down here and we were gonna meet up at the lighthouse.”

“No, she hasn’t come,” Charlie said. “And I can’t believe you let her run off by herself--haven’t you heard of the buddy system? And that’s implemented even when there aren’t murderers on the loose. Don’t you watch any horror movies?”

Sam’s faced fell. “I’m sure she’s fine.” He looked down the path. “I’m sure she’s fine. Winchester is locked up and she’s capable. Ruby was a fine old witch in her day--whoever Azazel’s witch is, they won’t stand a chance.” 

Charlie rolled her eyes, looking once more around the woods for a patch of grey fur or to hear once more a howl--but there was only silence. “C’mon,” she said, grabbing his hand and leading the way. “Let’s go find her.”

Sam nodded. “I guess I could have gotten here before her. I mean, she did leave before me, but she may have stopped to see Meg or even Pamela and Missouri, to see about lifting the curse maybe.”

Charlie’s stomach went numb and cold. “Yeah. Maybe.” 

They walked in silence through the woods. Peering up into the sky, Charlie thought that it looked like a flare of sun would break through the grey-backed, iron clouds for the first time since they set foot on the island. 

“I wanted to tell you something, Charlie,” Sam said as he lifted a tree branch out of her way.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. I just--wanted to thank you for coming. I was imagining we’d have a lot more fun with less bloodshed, but it really meant a lot to me that you came.” 

“Well, why wouldn’t I come?” Charlie said. “It’s not every day that someone asks me to be part of the groom’s wedding retinue.”

Sam laughed. “I don’t have that many friends, I guess. Ruby wanted me to ask acquaintances, like Gordon? But I was like--nah. Besides, we’re kind of untraditional--why not embrace it.”

Charlie’s eyes stung. “I guess.”

“But I was afraid you weren’t gonna come, because of that business with Madison, I guess,” Sam said. “It’s hard coming back to someone who loved you, and then abandoned you.”

“Madison didn’t abandon me,” Charlie said. “It was just--a big misunderstanding.” Sam stopped, and Charlie went a few paces before she noticed he still wasn’t walking beside her. “What?” 

“I wasn’t talking about Madison abandoning you--I was talking about you abandoning Madison.” Sam frowned at her. “That is how it went, right? You found out she was a werewolf--and then freaked.” Then he smiled at her. “I mean, haven’t you watched the movies? Did you miss Lupin’s big metaphor? Isn’t that what happened when you came out to your parents as gay? They were afraid of you? It wasn’t the same? But you draw the line at being a werewolf?”

Charlie flushed. “That’s not what happened--I was scared. Gay people don’t turn into monsters that could kill you by accident.”

Sam shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You found out she was a freak, and ran. Didn’t want to deal. Too busy thinking that you and your comfort was more important than Madison. You know what that makes you?” And he was standing close to her now, and he leaned over so that she could feel the hot puff of his breath. “A bitch." 

Charlie shoved her hands against Sam’s chest, but he had 200 pounds on her, and he was immoveable. “Fuck you, Sam.”

“I actually had a bet with my father about whether or not Madison would forgive you--” Sam shook his head. “But she decided to take the high road, pretended that nothing had happened.” His face twisted and he stepped closer to Charlie, forcing her up against a tree, caging her with his body, his arms, his legs. “And that was just even more insulting, you know? To let someone so easily go, to let someone just so easily back in. Like didn’t she have standards? Who was she to let you get away with that?”

“My friend,” Charlie said, her voice shaking. “She was my friend." 

“And you treated her like a dog,” Sam said. His lips were pinched over his teeth. “Do you know what I did to the people who separated me from my brother, to the person I loved the most? Who turned their back on me and mine when they found out that I was a freak? That I could be a monster too?”

Charlie shook her head, her voice faint. “I didn’t even know you had a brother.” 

“No one did,” he said. “That’s kind of the point, you know? Because not even I did, not until it was too late.” He shook his head, then laughed. “You’re distracting me, Charlie. But you always were a talker weren’t you, except when it counted.”

Charlie swallowed and forced herself to look up at Sam. “You were about to tell me what you did to the people who separated you.”

He put his hands on Charlie, his thumbs pressed against the hollow of her throat. She was too scared to struggle, could only hold very, very still, like a deer. “I killed them,” he whispered, “just like I’m going to kill you because of what you did to Madison.” 

“And what about Madison?” Charlie forced out as Sam tightened his grip. It hurt to speak. Her head was already swimming. Somewhere along the line, her body remembered to fight, and she found that her hands were scrabbling at his wrists, that her legs were kicking feebly.

“Don’t worry about Madison, Charlie,” Sam said. “I tried to take care of her, but that damn spell got lifted. You did hear her, you know--” and he squeezed and squeezed -- “but you didn’t recognize her, didn’t hear the warning in her howl. Just think how intimately you two could have known each other--no need for words. But you blew it.” Her vision blotched as he whispered, “You could have died together, but nope, like star-crossed lovers but I guess it wasn’t in the cards.” 

“Why,” she gasped, “I don’t--”

“We’re on the same side, why would I kill her? Because I have to. Because I have to become all that I can be, and I can’t have distractions. And because she let you back in. She shouldn’t have done that. You didn’t deserve it.”

Charlie tried to say Sam’s name one last time--to plead, to beg, she didn’t know--but she couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t speak.

She passed out first before she died, and Sam left her body crumpled at the foot of the tree, a circle of black and blue bruises around her neck. 

~*~

Victor was barely conscious when as he dragged himself out of the sheriff station, vision reeling, barely able to breathe. He didn’t know where he was going to go, just somewhere that was away and where life, rather than death, was imminent. Where that was, he didn’t know. 

He should go back, he thought. He shouldn’t just leave Meg there, demon or not.

Was this action respectable for a future FBI? He didn’t know. For some reason, he kept hearing the words of his nana whispering through his mind in her voice that kept getting creaker and raspier the older and sicker she got: there’s a time for everything, Victor, and everything in its season. A time for love, a time for hate. A time to run and a time to charge. A time to live, and they might tell you a time to die, but sometimes you gotta fight to live, to survive, promise me that, Victor -- as she coughed into her dainty, white hanky, the one with the lace edges she’d tatted herself.

He clung to a stop sign, to help support himself and catch his breath--when strong arms grabbed him and he swung out wildly, but it was only Dean and Gordon. “We gotcha,” Gordon said, “we gotcha.”

“We have to go back,” Victor said. “She’s in there all alone--”

“No you don’t,” Gordon said. “Besides, it’s too late for her.”

Victor dragged his feet. “What do you mean?” 

Gordon gave him his shoulder to lean on and Dean gave him his other shoulder. “You didn’t feel it? The spell’s back in place. Which means Meg lifted it--probably by sacrificing her own heart. Which means they were holding out on us the entire time like they always do. Demons, can’t trust them. We need to get to the church now, back on holy ground, and make a proper stand against this demon.”

“What if the witch casts it again,” Dean said, his voice tight.

Gordon shook his head. “Whoever it is--they won’t be able to. They’ll need time to prepare a spell of that magnitude, and we’ll finish them before then.”

“What if the witch is human?” Dean said. “We just can’t kill someone like they’re a monster.”

Victor summoned the energy to speak. “We’ll let the law take care of it.”

“The law might not be equipped,” Gordon said, his voice soft. “When is it ever equipped to deal justice--for humans or for monsters?”

“Let’s just get to the church,” Dean said, “and worry about the philosophy of our survival when we’re relatively safe, okay? We don’t need to make a decision now.” 

Gordon looked over Victor’s head to stare at Dean. “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Let’s sit and hope circumstance forces our hand one way or the other. Nice one, Winchester.” 

Dean rolled his eyes and just kept going. They reached the church in a few minutes--and they barricaded the door while Gordon blessed it, a crucifix held in his hand. Victor collapsed in the pews while Dean found a little bit of holy water. 

“This is going to have to do,” he said as he sat beside Victor. “Let me look at your face.” 

Victor inclined his head and, with one of the white cloths that had been set up neatly beside the altar, Dean began to clean up the blood from John Winchester’s beating. He tried not to flinch and wince, but it hurt, no matter how tenderly Dean dabbed at his wounds. Gordon came over then, opening up a small tin that had hung at his belt. “It’s a salve,” he said, applying it where Dean had already wiped. “Something that Missouri and Pamela cooked up for me when things got tough on the hunt. 

“Things are pretty tough right now,” Victor said, letting himself relax a little more against the hard wood as the two men tended to his care.

“Your knuckles are all bloody,” Dean said. He held his hands in both of his, thumbs skirting the the tender areas. He shook his head over them, and then wiped them with the cloth.

Victor huffed some laughter that made his ribs ache. “Just because he got the upper hand on me doesn’t mean I didn’t get a chance to throw some swings of my own.” 

A pounding on the door made them all jump, and Dean and Victor aligned themselves quickly on either side of it while Victor called out, “Who is it?"

“It’s Sam!” came the voice on the other hand. “C’mon let me in--they’re out there! Charlie’s dead! So’s Madison.”

Gordon bowed his head, his face hardening into stone as he raised it once more.

Dean opened the door and Sam fell into his arms, clutching him tight, hands all over his throat, his face. “I don’t think they ever made it to the lighthouse.”

Victor collapsed deeper into the pew and tried to fight the rising sense of panic. That meant that no one was coming to get them now. 

Sam still clung to Dean, his face twisting with unshed tears, desperation edging his voice like a bad dream. “And Dean--Ruby--they got Ruby. We were at the house, and we thought it was safe--but then--it wasn’t.”

“No,” Dean said. “No.” Like denial could change anything.

But Gordon’s eyes were narrowing in on Sam. “That’s an awful lot of dead people, boy. Where were you in all of this?”

“Finding them!” Sam said. “For Ruby, she wanted to split up, but she never made the rendezvous. So I went out looking for her--and found her. And then, I wanted to see how Charlie was going on with the radio, and found her and Madison both dead. And then I went to meet up with you guys and the jail cell was--” his face blanched and his pink lips stuttered in the open air -- “it was horrible. He tore out her heart! Ripped it from her ribcage.”

Gordon and Victor exchanged a glance. “How could John Winchester have had time to kill all those people, at different points on the island?” 

Sam frowned and shook his head. “Well, obviously his witch helped?” His hand curled more tightly around Dean’s nape, and Dean looked up at him, flinching. “What--are you suspecting me?”

“Sam?” Dean said. He tried to separate himself from Sam, but Sam only gripped tighter.

“Let him go,” Victor said. 

Sam licked his lips, voice hitched in disbelief as he said, still holding on to Dean, “You think it’s me? You think I’ve cast a spell in my life? You know what witches are!” 

“I think a demon would need a human accomplice who could enter the holy spaces,” Gordon said. 

“Where were you, Sam?” Victor struggled to his feet, even though it hurt. “What were you doing?”

Sam laughed. “I thought we were friends.” He looked down at Dean. “We’re friends, aren’t we? You believe in me, right?”

“Sam--” Dean stopped, looking from Dean and Victor. “You’re scaring me. Let me go.”

“Well gosh,” Sam said, and the laughing, distressed exterior dropped and he held Dean for real, twisting his arm up behind his back and keeping him close to his body.

Victor cursed under his breath. He knew a hostage when he saw one.

“It took you guys long enough--but gold star to you, Gordon, you’re the only who figured it out.”

Gordon shook his head. “That’s because I was the only one with good sense not to trust you.”

“Ouch, my feelings,” Sam said, putting his hand over his heart. “Well this has been fun, it really has been, but we need to start winding this party down. I’m guessing Maggie is cowering somewhere in here?” 

Victor forced himself to nod--realizing for the first time (and stabbed with guilt as he did) that she was nowhere to be found. She hadn’t been in the police department when John Winchester busted out--and she must not have crossed paths with Sam which was, apparently, for the best--but he should have realized she was missing sooner.

“That’s a relief,” Sam said. “I hate doing shit half-assed. I promised Azazel the entire wedding party would die, and so it will. Symbolism is important, you know, all that jazz.” His eyes met Victor’s. “I know you were more Dean’s friend than mine, but I’m going to miss you, man.” He turned back to Gordon, a shit-eating grin twisting his face. “You--not so much." 

“The feeling’s mutual,” Gordon said.

Dean kicked furiously, but Sam held him tight, running his fingers through his hair like he was soothing a wild animal. “Shh, Dean, shh--you’ll understand in time why it had to be this way. But I don’t want to fight you--” he held his hand against Dean’s cheek--his eyes rolled upwards, and he sagged limp in Sam’s arms.

Gordon made his move them, a swift lunge that should have knocked Sam off balance, possibly freeing Dean in the process--but Sam raised his free hand, and Gordon rocketed off his feet and plowed into the far wall of the church where he remained still.

A fist of magic slammed Victor hard against the floor, breaking open the wounds that Dean and Gordon had so carefully tended, his face flowing with blood.

“Don’t you hunters learn anything?” Sam said. “Never go up against a witch." 

Victor remained conscious long enough to see Sam duck out of the church, the doors sealing shut behind him, to become overwhelmed with the sound of the church exploding, and then a curtain of fire pressing in on the corners of his vision before the pain in his entire body pulled him under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: This was inspired by a series of posts by tumblr user Amonitrate about hunting and vigilante justice. Unfortunately, as this happened several months ago, I’m having a little trouble finding the links. Once I do, this footnote will be updated with a link. Thank you for your patience and understanding!
> 
>  
> 
> 2: Maya Angelou, Still I Rise
> 
>  
> 
> 3: The Chronicles of Narnia, A Horse and His Boy
> 
>  
> 
> 4: Scarlett Johansson: “I rode Sebastian Stan like a bull.” 
> 
>  
> 
> 5: Don’t even pretend that Charlie didn’t watch Captain America the Winter Soldier don’t even pretend!!!!


	14. Family

Madison was losing. Sam’s hellhound was bigger than her, stronger than her, hungrier than her. He had been trained to do this, to hunt, to kill.

He was Sam’s weapon, and she could see the burns and the scars that Sam had inflicted upon the creature to forge him into that weapon.

She didn’t want to add more--but she didn’t want to die either. Nor did she want anyone else to die. 

So she ran until her wolf-heart burned.

People had wanted to kill her when she had been bit before she even knew that werewolves existed. No one had asked her if she had wanted to become the monster in the woods--but someone had decided that she was worth giving a second chance to. 

Pamela and Missouri had actually been the ones to find her beside her first corpse--before she’d learned enough control to shift all the way from human to wolf--when she’d been more human with the heart of a wolf, the jowls of a wolf, the eyes of a wolf--confused and scared, blood in her mouth. They’d fed her. They’d laid a kind hand on her. They told her it would be okay. 

It’d only been a deer, sweet thing, just a deer.

Madison had cried even harder after that because she’d been vegetarian. She didn’t kill people, she didn’t kill things, because she wasn’t a killer.

She broke through the forest into a small glade--a stag grazed, his antlered head bowed in the grass. They must have been upwind because he didn’t move, or perhaps the general lack of predators had made him feel untouchable, safe in this serene meadow glade.. Either way, he didn’t try to run until it was too late, until Madison had him by the throat, ripping it away, staining the green lawn with his blood, and then jumping over the body, licking her lips and leaving the still hot deer as a gift for the hellhound.

Whether he would be distracted by it, she didn’t stop to find out. She dug her paws into the soft earth and bolted for Pamela’s and Missouri’s as her heart burned heavy within her. Once she was hidden in the forest, she paused to unleash a long howl, a howl she sang for Pamela, for Missouri--they had heard her once before, they had seen her once before, they had saved her once before. 

Fire singed her fur as the hellhound lunged for her flank and she barely escaped in a spray of dirt and pebbles, which cut her howl short.

Guess her gift hadn’t worked as well as she thought she would. 

She ran--a little slower than before, a little heavier than before. Her pink tongue lolled from her mouth.

She wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up for much longer.

~*~

“Did you hear that?” Missouri said, pausing as she raised her porcelain teacup to her lips. Jasmine tea steamed from it--her favorite.

Pamela stood straighter. “I’m blind not deaf.”

Missouri went towards the window, and pulled the lace curtains apart so that she could see into the forest. “We’re going to have company.”

“Madison?” Pamela said. She joined Missouri at the window, and they held hands, so that their perceptions would be strengthened.

“And another,” Missouri said.

“I can hardly call a hellhound company,” Pamela said. “It’s going to ruin the furniture.”

Missouri squeezed Pamela’s hand a little harder. “I’m sure she has her reasons, which she will explain to us in due time. But we need to make sure the hell pup has a place to stay where he won’t hurt anybody.”

“I thought that once a hellhound had your scent, that was it.”

Missouri bit a short laugh. “Of course, if they’re following the laws of their existence. Hellhounds were bred to return the souls of humans who dealt with devils at a crossroads. Nothing can break a contract like that--like that part in The Little Mermaid, did you ever see that--” Pamela rolled her shoulders, seriously, who hadn’t seen the Little Mermaid?-- “But I don’t think this hell pup is acting on a contract.”

“You mean it’s gone rogue?”

Missouri nodded. “I believe so. And that will help us, I think.” She went to her cupboard and began pulling out her holy oil and a candle. “Why don’t you prepare a sleeping spell while I prepare the circle so the poor thing won’t hurt himself?”

The two witches worked quickly so that that they were already waiting on the rocking chairs on their verandah, Pamela smoking a cigarette, and Missouri still sipping her jasmine tea, hot as ever when the underbrush rustled and snapped.

Missouri bit her lip when she saw Madison stumble from the forest into the clearing of their little cottage. Blood stained her paws and her mouth--though she didn’t think that was hers, probably the hell pup’s--but her flank was scorched, the fur still smoking, and she was more limping than running, her pace faltering even as flames caught her fur again, and she yelped as a red gash tore through her skin.

Missouri stood from the rocking chair, her hands held out. “C’mon, honey,” she called out. “I’m right here!”

Madison’s ears flicked forward, and it looked as if she gathered what energy remained to her for one last sprint, and this time Pamela joined her as they told her she could do it, that they were ready for her, and that she needed to trust them and jump.

And Madison did--she leaped into Missouri’s arms, paws around her neck, back paws for an instant on her thighs before they scraped down her skirt and she was reared up on her hind legs instead, too big for Missouri to carry properly, and her wolf-head rested on Missouri’s shoulder, brown eyes closed, as she whimpered softly while Missouri rubbed soothing circles in her back and she told Pamela, “Now--” when she sense that the hell pup had stepped on the ground they had consecrated. 

Pamela dropped her cigarette, its hot embers catching the holy oil, and a wall of blessed fire surrounded the pup--or so Missouri assumed. She could not see the hound, of course, but there was a red crested shadow prowling the center of the circle, a flickering shadow who howled with anger when the heat, hotter than hellfire, pushed him back, always back, towards the center--but that didn’t deter him for long, and he tried again.

Acrid smoke filled the air as Pamela cast the sleeping spell. It struggled to take, but as the pup staggered under the weight of it, as it tottered into the middle of the circle to try once more to break through the flames or to gather enough strength to leap clear over them Missouri didn’t know which--his eyes finally fell closed, and he fell into a deep sleep.

“Good job,” Missouri said, to Pamela and Madison both. 

She sank back into her chair, and Madison nuzzled Missouri’s face.

“What, no love for me?” Pamela said.

Madison whimpered and licked Pamela’s hand but froze when they heard the distant bang of an explosion.

Madison started guiltily, and she looked back towards Missouri, tongue still lolling from her mouth. “Don’t you dare go back out there without something to drink,” Missouri said, offering her tea. “Then you’re going to get in the back seat of the car, shift, and tell us what is going on. The witch has blinded our sight,” she said, frowning. “They are very powerful.” 

Madison jerked back, and barked something that was clearly a no and a not happening.

“Are you sure?” Pamela said.

Madison nodded and, before they could protest, she was off through the woods. Not as graceful as she usually was, but still fighting.

“Do we listen to her?” Pamela asked as she disappeared through the woods.

Missouri stood and smoothed her skirts. “Hell no. I’ll go get the car. Can you hold the fort down here? I don’t want the hell pup to be on his own.” 

“I got it. You go on and save the world or whatever is going on over there,” Pamela said.

It only took a few minutes for Missouri to gather a few supplies, such as her healing salve, and to get in their little jeep rover and to make her way downtown. It was about a ten minute drive, but Madison was on her way--would in fact, be able to get there before her since she could cut through the woods, and Missouri was confident that Madison would be able to handle anything that happened in the interim.

~*~

Maggie jerked awake when an explosion shook the walls of the newspaper office, and she clutched at something (which turned out to be Cassie’s leg, she realized a little later with a flush of embarrassment) as her ears popped from the noise. Once she realized whom she was clutching, she dropped her hands and instead grabbed her own knees, barely even wincing at the pain from the fading bruises. “What the hell?” 

“Nothing good,” Cassie said, unplugging Maggie’s camera from her computer and handing it back to her. “You wanna go find out what it was?” She swallowed hard, and Maggie noticed the way her cheeks had paled, the slight tremor under her skin as her pulse quickened.

They were both scared shitless.

“Not really,” Maggie said. It was safe here in the office. No one expected them to come here.

Cassie breathed a steadying breath that wasn’t quite a sigh and hitched a smile to her face. “I understand. But I can’t--just stay here. Not when all of this happening. Not when--” her voice faltered.

“I get it,” Maggie said. “But I’m not about to just watch you go off on your own. Buddy system, you know? Besides,” she said, trying to make her voice light, “don’t you need a cameraman?”

“I’m a journalist, not a reporter.” But Cassie smiled at her anyway. “But I won’t mind the company.” 

“I hope you’re wearing your running shoes,” Maggie said, “because I think we’re probably going to end up doing just that, like we’re in an episode of Doctor Who or something, which was this show that Ed used to...” her voiced trailed.

Cassie squeezed her hand. “I know. I’m familiar with it.”

A tower of smoke, like a ghostly spire, rose up over the town from the direction of the church, and they jogged towards it quickly. Maggie tried to think of what they would do when they got there, but when she pulled out her phone to dial 9-1-1, she still had no connection. Her face twisted as she shoved it back in her pocket. There was no way the two of them could contain a fire--especially this fire, as they turned the corner towards the church, and heat roiled out to hit them in the face.

Cassie flung up her arms to shield herself, and Maggie lifted the camera to her own, to stare at the scene from the eye of the camera. 

She didn’t even see the wolf until a bone-chilling howl split her ears, and Cassie cried out in surprise--but there it was, a grey, bloody thing, almost, and it paced the entrance of the church, whimpering and howling like it was working up its nerve before it flattened its ears against its skull, and dashed in under where the smoke poured out, and under what might have been the flames.

“Oh my god,” Maggie said. “Oh my god.” 

It took only a few seconds for the wolf to return, dragging someone by the collar of a smoking plaid shirt, and it was dragging him towards them, away from the fire, laying him at their feet.

It was Gordon.  

Cassie dropped to her knees beside him, checking his pulse and unbuttoning his shirt so that he could breathe more easily, more freely.

Little flames of fires burned in the coat of the wolf, and Maggie, even as she was telling herself that this was crazy, this was a goddamn wolf, why the fuck would she even think about stopping a wild animal, stepped in front of it, stopping its way from going back into the church, so she could pat them out with her coat. 

The wolf stood impatiently, then butted Maggie out of her way before going back into the church.

Maggie watched the entryway she had disappeared down like a hawk while Cassie tended Gordon best she could.

Maggie didn’t know shit about how to tend people who had just barely managed to escape a burning fire. She figured they needed oxygen--but where could they find oxygen? She turned back towards Cassie, the camera shaking in her hands. 

Ed would be so pissed off.

“We need to take him farther from the fire,” she shouted over its roar. “There’s too much smoke here.” 

Cassie nodded and she gripped him by the arms while Maggie took his legs, and they struggled to drag him farther down the street, where the air was clearer.

There was another surge of heat, another explosion, and Maggie screamed as her grip slipped on Gordon, and because the wolf was still inside--but no, she wasn’t, she was dragging someone else through the smoke and the fire, dragging him after Maggie and Cassie and towards a jeep that was definitely speeding up the road towards them, and then passed them.

Maggie heard Billie Holiday as Missouri climbed, and touched the foreheads of both Gordon and Victor. The wolf sat beside Gordon, paws on his arm, sometimes leaning forward to lick away the smoke that ashed his cheek. “They’ll be fine,” Missouri said. “Maybe a little burned but they would have been a lot worse for wear, wouldn’t they have?” She gently pushed the wolf aside, and began to apply a salve to their burns--which were minor. Maggie would have thought they would have been suffering major burns but they weren’t. Maybe they had been lucky. Maybe the wolf had just gotten to them in time.

“The wolf did it,” Maggie said. 

Missouri smiled. “You’re talking about Madison? I’m not surprised. She’s always been brave like that.”

Maggie looked around them--there were still people missing. Where was everyone? Why weren’t they at the police station? “They weren’t even supposed to be here.” Guilt soured in her gut. Something had gone wrong--and she had been hiding. “Wasn’t there anybody else in the church?”

The wolf lifted her head--shook it.

The camera fell from Maggie’s hands as she covered her face. Someone was crying no, no, no over and over, and it was in her voice, but she couldn’t stop. She jerked away from Cassie, from Missouri, even from the wolf--Maggie guessed she wasn’t brave enough, not like Madison, to keep it together because this was just like the panic attacks she used to get, and why she’d join the roller derby because she hadn’t wanted to feel them anymore, had wanted to learn to get a grip.

But there wasn’t anything to hold onto now. Her family was dead.

~*~ 

Dean came back to consciousness with his back against a tree--there was smoke in the air, and Sam stood on the ledge, looking down on the town. Dean shifted, experimentally, and saw that his wrists and legs were bound.

“Don’t try to move, Dean,” Sam said, his voice soft. “There’s nowhere to run.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “Why are you doing this, Sam?" 

Sam turned back towards him, for the first time. Smoke streaked his face. His hair was dirty. There was blood on his clothes and his hands. Not his blood, Dean knew, but the blood of people he had once called his friends. That Dean had been friends with.

Loss carved at his heart, his stomach, his voice.

There weren’t any words but, “Why?”

“Because I asked him to,” Azazel said, stepping from the shadows to stand with Sam. 

Dean looked up at the face of his father, the father he hadn’t seen for seven years. The father that they’d buried when the sheriff had shot him, before she’d taken him in like he was one of her own--and then, just as soon, sent him off, turned her back on him same as his father had done years and years ago.

It would have been better if he could have said, Azazel took him, but John Winchester had left years before they’d met Azazel -- quit the job before he’d even been born.

“And Sam is a good son,” Azazel with John’s voice said. “And I am so proud of all that he has accomplished.”

They embraced then, a bone gripping hug that was more like they clutched each other to their hearts and Dean felt a pain--a pain of something because John had never hugged Dean like that and he knew it wasn’t John but it still--it still hurt like hell. 

They separated, and Sam pulled something from the back of his jeans--a gun, an old gun. “I found this with the demon who forgot her name,” he said. “It’s spelled against you.”

Azazel smiled, laughing that low, slow chuckle that Dean could still remember even after all this time. “And you brought it to me. You never disappoint me, kid, you know that?” Azazel cocked it, finger heavy on the trigger as he pointed it at Dean. “Do you think you could make me proud, one last time?” 

Sam hauled Dean up by the collar, breaking the ropes that had bound him, and forced him to his knees before stepping behind him to stand beside Azazel.

This was it. This was the end. Dean’s heart sped up, fear turned sour in his belly. He could barely breathe. Even now, even after all this time, even after the death of--everyone--he still wanted to live, though apparently not enough to actually fight for it because he was tired of running, tired of fighting.

Maybe Adam had been right--maybe he was selfish. Maybe he was weak. Maybe he did deserve this.

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard Sam take the gun from Azazel.

“Do it,” he said. “I believe in you, boy.” 

His breath came in hollow rasps as his muscles told him to run and his heart told him the futility of it and his body cried out for peace, for rest.

The gun banged and Dean jumped.

Azazel in John’s body fell heavily beside him, and Dean jerked back, away from the blood pooling on the forest, the yellow light in his eyes finally fading to black, as his gaze lifted towards Sam, who stood over the body, cool, detached. “I would have thanked her before I killed her myself,” he said, “but she was already dead.”

Dean scrabbled away, trying to run through his bonds, but Sam gripped him by the throat. “No you don’t,” he hissed as he slammed the butt of the colt against his head.

~*~

Gordon opened his eyes slowly. It hurt to breathe, and it felt like his lungs had been barbequeued and then stitched up back inside him with a third grader’s skill. He coughed, and tried to rise, but something pushed him back down again--a light touch, more a suggestion than anything, but it irritated him all the same.

His vision cleared, focused, and he saw that it was a wolf, and that her paw was on his chest. “Madison?” he said, his voice rough and hoarse.

“She saved you, you know,” Missouri said, somewhere out of sight. 

He raised his hand, weakly, and Madison rubbed her head against it. 

“Why she still a wolf?” he asked.

“Because she hasn’t changed back, obviously,” Missouri said back, and it sounded like she was rolling her eyes when she said it.

“Victor?”

“Still sleeping.” Missouri kneeled over him. “Madison saved him too. He’s right there beside you, on your left1.”

Gordon turned his head, saw Victor. He looked almost peaceful. Gordon took his still hand in his and squeezed. His skin was warm, and there was a slow pulse too. “Hello, brother,” he whispered.

“And lest you think,” Missouri said, “that Madison did all the saving, I wasn’t able to extinguish the fire, but I did manage to contain it so no other buildings will be harmed, but the church is a lost cause. But we can rebuild. And maybe get some nicer stained glass while we’re at it.”

He sat up, and this time Madison let him. “I agree. Maybe get a Jesus who looks Hebrew this time.”

Missouri nodded.

Gordon turned back towards Madison. “Thank you,” he said. He winked at her, then held out his hand for her to shake, but she just pressed up against his side, and licked his forehead once, mirroring the spot he’d once given her the kiss of peace, before she gave him her paw, which he held until she slipped away back towards the forest. 

“She gonna be alright?” he said. 

“Are you gonna be alright?” Missouri said.

Gordon shook his head. “I don’t know.”  He looked around, taking a head count. “Where is everyone?”

“Dead, I think,” Missouri said, her voice quiet. 

“What about Dean?” Gordon said. And then he remembered, and he tried to rise unsuccessfully to his feet. “It’s Sam, Missouri. The witch is Sam, and he’s in league with Azazel.”

Missouri’s face spasmed. “Oh my lord,” she whispered. “I taught that boy almost everything I knew when he was here for the summers. No wonder--” and her voice failed. “No wonder he could so easily turn our sight.”

“We need to find him,” Gordon said. “We need to end this.” 

“You need to stay put and heal,” Missouri said. “Besides, where do you think Madison’s gone off to again? You think she stays in a wolf form just for shits and giggles? She’ll let us know, and then we’re gonna be smart about this. But for now? We wait until we receive word from her.”

 Gordon couldn’t argue with that, and he didn’t even try. He was okay with waiting. They couldn’t afford to make a mistake.

~*~

Dean woke for a second time in a room that he didn’t recognize. He wore soft, flannel plaid pajamas that smelled new. His body felt like it had been washed. The thin skin over his pulse smelled of lilacs.

His hand shook as he looked down the length of his body. The way his nails were clean under the nails. How smoke no longer ashed his skin.

How did he not wake up when the water splashed his face? When somebody washed all his dirt and blood away?

Dean’s stomach roiled and he saw a small room that might be a bathroom and he lunged toward it, and he was right, there’s a toilet and a small tub and he threw up right in the bowl, threw up until he dry heaved, until he thought he might not breathe right again.

The water turned on easy, got hot fast, and he let it get hot enough so that it fogged the mirror so that he couldn’t see his face, his face shaved smooth, the face that should have had two days worth of scruff on it at least.

He smelled the shaving cream now, the tang of it still in the air.

The razor was gone though. He couldn’t find that anywhere.

Then he splashed his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut as the water scalded his skin. Reached for the toothbrush--it was the one he’d brought with him--and how did it get here, how did it-- right, and there his favorite toothpaste, cinnamon sweet.

His hands still as the deer he’d seen in the woods those few days ago. He’d brought the travel size toothpaste, the one he could only find in mint flavor.

His heart rabbitted in his throat. He brushed his teeth, to get the taste of himself from his teeth, his tongue, before he went back to the small room he’d woken in.

His boots were by the bed, tucked neat at the foot, laces untangled and unknotted. There were no windows, and only one door. There was nothing in the room that could be used as a weapon. There was a glass of water and two aspirin beside the bed, but the glass was plastic--utterly useless. He swallowed the pills down because his head ached horribly, and then tested the door.

It was locked.

He wondered if he should call out. If he should say, hello. If he should make demands of release.

What if there was no one there to listen? What if it would be better to sit tight, to hold his cards close to his chest.

He sat on the edge of the bed, pulled on his boots so that if he needed to kick, it would hurt like hell.

His heart refused to calm down. It was hard to breathe. Every noise, every bird call, had him half out of his seat, out of his skin.

The coverlets on the bed were red, like the ones at home. The one he and Benny had slept on the night he left for the island.

Dean’s throat burned raw.

He’d seen too many dead bodies. No time to give them a proper funeral, to give them the proper respect that they deserved.

He still had his phone though, and he pulled it from his pocket now. Still no signal, still no way to call for help which was, of course, the only reason he had it. He scrolled through his contacts, sees their name.

Anna. Adam. Sheriff Jody.

Before, she’d been listed under Mom.

Wondered, maybe, if he should change it back, but then decided not to.

Everybody he would ever have called for help, was dead, and the only one who remained, Sam, Sam his best friend, dear to him as any brother, was the one who had done this to him.

Skin clammy cold, he slid his hands under his thighs to stop their shivvering.

Irrationally, he thought that this wouldn’t have happened if Jody hadn’t sent him away. If she’d told him what was going on, so that he could help her.

And now, he had to carry this, those dead faces those dead eyes, dead because of him because why else would he be alive?

He hung his head until the light dimmed to darkness. He fell asleep with his boots on.

~*~

Kevin and Tamara succeeded in making it to the mainland, but when they brought the cavalry, they were unable to find the Island again.

Tamara suspected even more witchcraft--with the island effectively in exile, Azazel and his witch protege could do whatever they wanted.

The coastguard gave them trouble. Rufus got them out of it.

They tried to come up with a plan over the table. Kevin studied spells and wondered how much he had to learn before he became a witch himself.

Tamara read with him.

When Channing flew up, demanding answers, Kevin gave them to her, then she was reading too.

Eyes shifting from each of them, she wondered how many witches they’d need to qualify as their own coven.

She raised her brows. Wow. Who’d have seen that coming.

~*~

When Dean awoke, he saw that Sam was sitting with him, reading a magazine, the kind with glossy leaves and pretty people staring from the front. He was wearing the purple shirt, the one with the silver dog. The one he'd been wearing the first time Dean had seen him again after all those years.

Dean gave up trying to read the title of it. His eyes kept drifting toward Sam, and it took him a few minutes to realize that Dean was awake.

When he did, he smiled eager, like he had when he’d first seen Dean on the ferry, and tossed the magazine aside with a flip of his wrist. It rustled through the air, and Dean winced at the noise the leaves made as they twisted and rolled on themselves as they hit they hit the wall.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Sam said, getting up from the chair and sitting beside Dean on the bed.

His weight made the bed dip, shifted Dean so that his thigh brushed Sam’s thigh. He held himself still, focused on the spot of wall over Sam’s shoulders.

His boots were gone.

“Where are my boots,” he said.

“I took them off,” Sam said. “You fell asleep with them on. You know you don’t have to do that anymore.”

Dean thought there was something like reproach or pity in his voice. He stiffened. “What else did you do?”

Sam held out his hands in surrender even though it was Dean in the locked room. “What do you mean what else did I do?”

Dean wondered if he could take him--all six feet five inches of him, all muscled mass of him. Realized that he didn’t want to take him, that Sam had been his friend.

But Sam had the upper ground anyway. He could see the fight unfold in his head. Sam throwing him down on the bed, using his weight and leverage and height against him, could almost feel the way Sam would hold him down, the way he’d straddle his chest, the way he’d pin his hands to his side or above his head or-- “You know what I mean.”

Sam buttoned his lip over his teeth like he was nice and proper. Like he wouldn’t just go around doing those kinds of things, and yet. “I can’t believe you think I’d do that to you.”

“Well, someone undressed me, washed me,” Dean said. He folded his hands behind his back to hide how they were shaking.

He missed his too-big jacket with the large pockets. Sam must have taken it.

Sam smiled at him, beatifically like he was a saint soldered in stained glass. “People do that all the time for each other. In hospitals. When we were kids. Come on, don’t you remember? When we’d played so hard we’d collapse? And we’d help each other out of our dirty clothes and fall asleep?” His face fell a little bit but the smile stayed. “C’mon--don’t you remember?”

Dean said nothing.

Everything sounded very reasonable.

Sam nodded, with that air of injured grace as he stood up and dragged the chair after him. “Well. If you’d rather be alone, then I understand. I know how hard this must be for you. But before you judge me, you should at least hear the whole story.”

“I know everything I need to know,” Dean said, seizing onto the bloodbathed last few days. It helped remind him that not everything was so reasonable. “You killed everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Sam said, his voice earnest. “I didn’t kill you.” He abandoned the chair,and knelt beside Dean at the bed. “And he wanted me to kill you. Azazel wanted me to kill you, Dean, and I didn’t.”

Dean wanted to ask him why, why me, but he didn’t. He just stared down at Sam, there on his knees.

Even when he knelt they were still almost even.

Sam was so tall.

“I did it because I love you, Dean,” Sam said. “I’ve loved you since we were kids, since before I knew we were brothers--”

“What’?” the word escaped Dean before he could call it back.

“I know, it’s wrong isn’t it that we never knew?” Sam’s face settled in again, hard and disdainful. “You know who knew? Jody knew. She lied, kept it from us.”

Dean shook his head. No, she wouldn’t have--she wouldn’t have.

“Mary knew,” Sam said, voice resolute. “Our birth mother. And she gave me away, but she kept you.” His mouth twisted. His hand fell on Dean’s knees in soothing circles. “But we’re in this together now, and that’s all that matters.”

Dean tried to flinch away, but Sam’s grip was too heavy.

“But I don’t blame you for that,” Sam said, his voice soft. “I could never blame you for the sins of our parents.”

Dean swallowed. “Well, that’s comforting.”

Sam smiled. “I knew you’d see it that way.” He patted Dean’s leg. “I’ll come by tomorrow, okay? Maybe we’ll have lunch together.”

Sam was almost gone. Dean had to stop him. “Wait,” he said, his voice cracked. Sam turned around, the smile back. “If you feel like that--” Dean wet his lips with his tongue -- “then why don’t you let me go.”

Sam’s face faltered, and his eyes blinked rapidly. “You don’t want to stay here, Dean?”

“I have a home. In Los Angeles,” Dean said. His hands were folded loose in his lap. The ring of paler skin the ring had left behind was almost gone. His thumb pulled at the skin there, and he wondered if Sam had taken the ring too. If he should ask for it back.

“That can be sold,” Sam said.

“I have family and friends,” Dean said, voice desperate. “They’ll want to know where I am.”

Sam looked at him sadly. “No, you don’t, Dean,” Sam said with a sigh. “We all had the same friends, don’t you remember? And I invited them all to the wedding. And now they’re dead. There’s no one waiting for you because I’m here, Dean, and you don’t have to wait for me any longer.”

“Someone will look for me,” Dean said, thinking of Benny, but no--he had come to the island. “You were the one that messaged Benny.” He closed his eyes against the realization, struggling to breathe, fingers twisting in the covers.

They’re dead. They’re dead. They’re dead. The words loomed over Dean.

“I know you have to mourn for them,” Sam said. “I read that in the books. So I get it, Dean, I get it. You can take as long as you want. I’ll be right here, waiting for you. We have all the time in the world--no one’s finding this island, and no one’s leaving, not as long as I’m alive.”

The door closed softly behind him, and Dean waited until he could no longer hear the clump of his boots.

He got up, softly, his socked feet making almost no noise as he reached for the handle and gently tried the door.

It was locked.

He patted himself down, wishing he still had his jacket, but Sam had taken that and anything else that could have been used to pick the door.

Dean lifted his leg to kick at it, to beat it down, but then stilled himself. He didn’t know where Sam was. He didn’t know the layout of the house. He didn’t even know if he was still on the island.

Panic rose in his heart, his throat, as he forced himself to sit down.

He had to think about this.

He had to trick Sam.

He knew that Sam didn’t trust him, not really. Not with a locked door and almost nothing of his own that hadn’t been screened first by his own watchful eyes.

He flexed his hands against his knees to keep them from trembling, fighting against the nausea churning in his belly.

This must have been Sam’s whole plan.

Because they were dead, they were dead, they were dead.

He fell onto his side, his knees drawn up against his belly. He closed his eyes and saw their dead faces.

He opened them and still saw them in the patterns of the walls.

It was going to be a long night.

~*~

Maggie tried to leave the island, but the boats were burned. Cassie stood beside her, holding her hand. “We’ll get you home, somehow,” she said.

Maggie nodded, words shriveling on her tongue. “It’s not over, is it?”

“We should write it down,” Cassie said. “People need to know.”

“Not just about this, though,” Maggie said. “I didn’t know anything about this until Ed got got interested in it and dragged me along for the ride. But--how would this have turned out differently if we knew about demons and angels and monsters? They use our ignorance against us.”

Cassie nodded. “I get it. We’ll change the world. We’ll teach people to protect themselves.”

“Yeah,” Maggie said, “something like that.”

~*~

Sam brought grilled cheese sandwiches for Dean. Dean looked at the plate on the red-wood tray and folded his hands under the wood.

It wasn’t made from the velveeta processed squares. It was the real deal. It smelled like melted gouda. There were warm slices of tomatoes and spinach and what smelled like garlic.

His mouth watered, but he did not move to take it.

“What’s the matter?” Sam said, around a bite of his own. “I remember you liking grilled cheese sandwiches well enough.”

“Just not hungry,” he said.

Sam nodded, like he understood. “Maybe tomorrow.”

Dean didn’t say anything back.

The next day Sam brought sushi. Then peanut butter sandwiches. Celery dipped in nutella.

Everything on paper plates. Everything that could be eaten with their fingers.

Sam knew too much about their life as hunters.

They’d grown up with monsters, and you didn’t need Ludo to tell them that anything could be a weapon if you were holding it right.

Dean got hungry though. He caved when Sam brought him a cheeseburger--though where he got it was anybody’s guess.

The meat was rare, juicy. It flooded his stomach and trickled down his chin.

It was the best burger he’d ever had.

It was the worst burger he’d ever had.

He loved it.

He hated himself for it.

Guilt settled heavy in his gut.

Relief warmed the hungry hollow of his treacherous belly.

Sam smiled at him, and was right there with a napkin to wipe the mustard and mayonnaise and the meat juice from his chin.

He’d eaten too much too fast after fasting too long.

He threw it up.

He brushed his teeth.

He was hungry again the next day, and he ate whatever it was that Sam brought him then.

He focused on the act of chew and swallow. Did not think about the taste of it. The texture of it.

Those things didn’t matter not a single bit, not with Sam sitting beside him, watching every bite he ate, smiling so proud when he ate every, single, bite.

~*~

Victor and Gordon prepared their guns before setting out in the woods with Madison at their heels, sniffing the wind.

The island was small, but somehow they couldn’t find Sam or where he had taken Dean.

The first night of their search, they came across the corpse of John Winchester and it looked like the demon inside of him had died too. They salted and burned his bones, though Gordon was of the private opinion that John Winchester did not deserve the honor of a hunter’s death.

As they watched the flames consume him, he said to Victor, “Sam Winchester must die.”

Victor said nothing and Madison’s eyes gleamed gold in the light.

Every night, they returned to Pamela’s and Missouri’s house empty handed. Pamela and Missouri communed with the spirits and they tried to tell them where Sam had hidden himself, but their sight was blind as well.

It was a very frustrating time. The only good news was that some of the spirits told them that Tamara and Kevin had made it alive to the mainland.

They celebrated with alcohol, the good stuff, Johnny Blue.

~*~

Dean remembered the first and last time that Sam hit him with bell like clarity.

Sam had tucked himself behind Dean on the bed, long knees against Dean’s back, huge hands on his shoulders, rubbing the muscles there. “You’re so stressed,” he whispered, his breath hot against Dean’s ear.

“I can’t imagine why,” Dean murmured back. He licked his lips. He had to be careful. But he needed information--it was the only way out. “I want to hear your side of the story, Sam. I want to understand.”

Sam’s grip tightened almost painfully, but Dean didn’t let a sound betray his pain. Then his hands relaxed. “The angels wanted to use us. Lucifer wanted me, Michael wanted you.”

Dean’s eyes fluttered close and he went still.

“It’s okay,” Sam said. “I got rid of him for you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah you did,” Dean said. “Nice job, Sammy.”

He thought that Sam was smiling, but he didn’t look around to see.

“It was going to the be apocalypse,” Sam said. “The real end of the world. The end of everybody. The end of us. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t just let that happen.”

“Neither could Jody,” Dean said.

Sam took his hands off Dean’s shoulders.

Wrong thing to have said. He should have been able to relax now that Sam wasn’t touching him, but he couldn’t, not when Sam was so close, not that he knew that Sam was angry. He tensed, wondering if he’d be able to slide to the foot of the bed without Sam pulling him back.

“She went about it the wrong way,” Sam said.

Dean nodded. “Right. I guess it’s hard knowing what to do in a situation like that.”

“It is,” Sam said. “It’s really hard knowing what to do. So many things can go wrong.”

Dean slid an inch to the left, away from Sam.

“Azazel hated that Mary tried to welch from her deal. I don’t think anybody’s ever fought for me as hard as Azazel did.” Sam shook his head, looking down at his hands, curled open against his knees. “I don’t think anybody’s ever killed before like Azazel did for me. Until me, of course.”

Dean raised his head, saw the way that Sam was looking at him expectantly. “It’s really something,” he said weakly. “Really makes you feel a certain way.”

Sam smiled. “It does. But he wasn’t able to get you too. I don’t think Lucifer would have let him anyway.” He frowned, and crawled from the bed, pacing in circles. “I lived in hell in the winter, and came to earth in the summer. I came because Azazel let me. Because he knew how much I loved you, Dean. He didn’t have to do that--but he did.”

“I’m touched,” Dean said.

Sam shook his head, then paced even more quickly. “But then everything just went to hell. Lucifer and Michael didn’t care about us, not like Azazel cared about me, or how I cared about you. And then Jody trapped Azazel and sent you away and made everything so much more difficult. She made deals with angels, demons, and monsters to keep us apart, Dean.” Sam’s lips settled into a thin red line. “I couldn’t let that go. And it wasn’t going to work anyway.”

Dean licked his lips, eyes darting Sam’s face to the walls of the room, not quite so clean as they first were, now layered with dust. “Seems to have been working out just fine until someone started murdering everybody.”

Sam’s fist slammed into Dean’s face, and he staggered under the blow. “She took you away from me--” he shouted. His limbs trembled as he lowered his fist. “I’m sorry--I didn’t mean--I was just.” He pressed his palms together and spoke slowly, as if he were explaining something to a child. “I’m just--she shouldn’t have done that, you know? She sent you away, even though we’re brothers, and you got this whole new life that didn’t have me in it, and it’s just--that’s not how we’re supposed to be as brothers, you know?”

“They were my friends,” Dean said. His jaw hurt. He thought there was blood in his mouth. Maybe it was on his lips, because Sam’s gaze was focused on a spot there, just there and he wanted to hide from it, from those eyes. “They were my family.”

Sam shook his head. “I’m your friend. I’m your family. I’m your only real family, by more than just blood, because family don’t end or begin with that.” He went to the door, palm on the silver knob. “I’m the only person you have left.”

Because everybody else was dead, dead by his hand.

But Sam was already gone, and Dean was left alone with his aching jaw.

~*~

Pamela and Missouri cared for the hell pup. They fed him. They healed his wounds best they could.

When Madison shifted, she could see him with her wolf eyes.

He mirrored her, and they would stare at each other for hours, noses in their paws. Help me, Madison thought. Help me find him.

When she watched the pup as she drank her morning coffee, she told him about Charlie. How she had found her body in the woods, and how she had burned her bones.

It was hard not to cry, and sometimes, she’d find herself crying as she washed the dishes, and sometimes she found herself howling up at a clear blue sky and always, she found herself missing Charlie.

She let the pup hear Charlie’s voice, because she had found the phone, batteries all dead, by the radio. Mayday, Charlie's voice called, mayday.

You would have liked her, she told the pup, who didn’t answer back.

She put the phone away back into her pocket. She folded her hands in her lap, fingers clenched together.

Look here, she told the pup, sliding her fingers together. This is the church, this is the steeple, and--she spread her thumbs, waggling her fingers--these are the people--

She thought there were times the pup wanted to go back to Sam, and there were times where it seemed like he was content to stay in their yard, with her and Missouri and Pamela, though sometimes he disappeared in the wooden shelter they made for him, just for him.

They found out that he liked meat, bloody and raw, but that he also liked the canned pumpkin (Charlie liked pumpkin pie too, Madison told him because it sounded like it could be true as he licked the can empty and dry from her hand). They started keeping their pantry stocked, and they gave it to him when he didn’t snarl at them and when he wagged his tail, and when he went out with Madison to hunt for Sam and Dean.  

Once, when Madison fell asleep as a wolf in the yard after a long day of hunting, and woke as a human, she felt him pressed against her side, licking her fingers. She held very still and, after a few minutes, the rush of cold air and the sudden weight lifting from her side let her know that he had gotten up and walked away.

~*~

“Do you love me?” Sam said as he wiped Dean’s lips with a white napkin.

Dean said nothing.

Sam left without saying a word back.

“Do you love me?” Sam asked again as he clipped Dean’s hair.

Dean knew this would be an ideal time to escape. To run. To plunge those scissors into some space vulnerable.

But he couldn’t. He could barely move. He could only sit there. He tried to wriggle his toes in his boots.

Sam very calmly explained it was a spell. “It’s for your own protection, Dean,” he said, “because I know you want these scissors, and I don’t want to hit you again, and I’d rather just not have you force my hand like that.”

Right. Of course.

“There are lots of spells,” Sam said as the scissors went snip-snip. “So many spells. Spells of healing. Spells of summoning.” He paused, his fingertips running through Dean’s hair, skittering across his scalp.

Maybe it was a spell that kept him from shuddering.

“Love spells, even.” The cold edge of the scissors pressed against Dean’s neck. “But I’d never do that to you--I could, but I wouldn’t. I don’t.”

~*~

Victor and Gordon shared their bed together. It felt good, Victor thought, sharing with someone again. It had been hard--he had left an angry string of boyfriends and girlfriends behind him in his quest for--not vengeance, he told himself, but justice.

But Gordon understood.

They found each other in the dark and in the sun and in the in between times. They were gentle with each other and they were rough with each other.

Victor wanted to talk about what would happen to them when they were finally able to leave the island, once this was all finally over. Gordon said they should just wait to see if they still survived because yes, he did find himself looking over his shoulder for Sam Winchester, and his neck was getting tired.

But after, Victor urged, lips against his cheek, rough with stubble and beard.

“I’ll always be right here, Victor,” Gordon said. “This is my home.”

“And when I’m in the FBI,” Victor said, mumbling into shoulder because he still had to believe that was what he was gonna be someday, that Sam Winchester hadn’t screwed it to hell and back, “I’m gonna make sure you’re always gonna be able to come home.”

And they slept.

~*~

One day, Dean tried the door as was his habit--he always tried it after he woke, after he splashed his face with water, eyes searching his reflection even though it sometimes felt like he didn’t recognize himself, as if he couldn’t quite believe that was his face in the mirror, when it was Sam who shaved the scruff from his cheeks, when it was Sam that dragged a comb through his hair, when it was Sam--and here, he squeezed his eyes shut and counted to ten, his hands clenched around the bathroom sink.

Then he dressed himself in the clothes that Sam had picked out for him, and then he tried the door.

And it was always locked.

Except for today.

His stomach free-fell as the door swung slowly open. Dean looked from his feet to the empty hallway, wondered if this was really meant for him, if it was a trap, if it was a test, and what he’d have to do in order not to fail it, wondered what would happen if he did fail it--would Sam keep it locked forever, or would he just hit him again?

One careful step, and he was out of the room.

His skin tensed at the open space that surrounded him.

Carefully, he stepped down the stairs.

Someone was making noise below--something that sounded like a pan over a hot fire and smelled like eggs scrambling in bacon grease.

His stomach growled.

He found himself in the entryway of the kitchen, his eyes falling on the tools he could have used to escape, tools that had almost been in reach and yet had been so, so far away.

“You’re up,” Sam said, happily. “I’m making your favorite. You've been so good.”

Dean nodded. “I love eggs and bacon.”

“I wanted to tell you something, Dean,” Sam said. A plastic spatula moved back and forth against the eggs. There were diced tomatoes beside a pile of chopped onions.

The knife, still gleaming with tomato and onion, rested beside the sink. And, beyond Sam, beyond the sink--another door.

Dean wondered if he’d be able to reach the knife in time. Wondered if there’d be any point. Wondered if he should wait for a better opportunity--a better moment.

“I need you, Dean,” Sam said. “I need you because I realized something--you keep me good. I don’t want to do bad things because I know you’ll be disappointed.” He raised his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking about the time I hit you, and how I shouldn’t have done that. You must have been so disappointed in me.”

Dean remembered his father. “It’s okay,” he said, his mother’s words coming to his tongue.

Sam shook his head. “It’s not okay though.”

“I forgive you,” Dean said. He reached out for Sam, because that is what his mother had done when John came back, tearful and swearing and promising that he’d never do it again, to only please give him a second chance. "Brother."

Sam abandoned the eggs, which were beginning to lose their shine. They were going to burn any second.

He fell into Dean’s arms, clutching him, scrabbling at his shoulder blades beneath his clothes.

Dean wondered how tight he should hug back--wondered if it would be good enough for Sam, whatever he did.

But then Sam pressed a kiss against Dean’s forehead, Dean’s hand shot out for the counter, warm from the heat of the stove, and clutched at the wood, muscles rigid under Sam’s touch. “I choose you, Dean,” Sam whispered in his ears. “I’ve always chosen you. I chose you over Lucifer, the king of hell, and I chose you over both my fathers--” Sam closed his eyes, brought his mouth close to Dean even as Dean’s hands fumbled for the hot pan that he swung towards Sam’s head, hot grease searing Sam’s skin as he screamed and brought his hands to his eyes.

He ran out the door, plunging blindly towards the forest, before stopping up short against the cliff, arms windmilling to regain his precarious balance. “Fuck,” he shouted.

He had been so stupid. He should have known that Sam would have safeguarded any possible escape.

“There’s no escape, Dean.” Sam’s voice came from behind him. He hadn't even run after Dean, had just walked slow and sure and steady, shoulders square. Grease stained the floral pattern of his shirt. “I thought you’d be more grateful--but there’s time. I’ve got all the time in the world for you to come and see it my way.” He nodded. “That’s the way it’s gonna have to be, I guess.” He smiled--slow, sad, yet dangerous too. “Even when everyone is gone, Dean, you’ll always have me.”

“I don’t want you!” Dean said. “I want my family back, my friends back.”

Sam flinched, and his face went carefully smooth and blank. "I am your family. Your brother."

He shook his head, feet even closer to the edge of my cliff. “You’ll only have me over my dead body.”

“Don’t you ever learn, Dean? I’m a witch--I’d catch you before you even had a chance to hurt yourself.” He smiled sadly, then raised his hand--to cast a spell, maybe--but Dean didn’t give him the chance. He lunged forward, his fist catching Sam on the jaw, and then they struggled against each other on the edge of the cliff face.

Sam bruised Dean’s kidney’s with his knees, bloodied his face to a pulp with his fist, and Dean tried, but he was too weak, and Sam was too strong--before long, he was on his knees as Sam split his knuckles against Dean’s face with blow after blow after blow, until Dean could hardly see, struggling with every strength that remained to him to hold onto his last scrap of consciousness. 

Sam panted in between blows. “One day, you’ll understand. One day, you’ll thank me for this day, for stopping you from leaving a second time, stop you from making another mistake that you’d just regret.” 

A wolf howled, and Sam paused--his eyes lifting from Dean’s bloodied face for the first time. His features twisted with surprise, rage. “Wait your turn, Madison,” he snarled. “And the hellhound too, what's it gonna fucking take--” 

And with the last of his strength, Dean reared up, pushed against Sam’s legs, hips, and belly with his head and shoulders, so that Sam teetered along the edge of the cliff, dancing wildly along the side, trying to regain his balance--but Dean kicked his feet out from under him and he fell over the bluff, screaming for Dean, screaming for help, but Dean--didn’t.

He crawled to the edge of the cliff, dimly aware of a wolf beside him, and stared at the long drop down into the ocean.

There was no Sam. There was no sign of the person who’d been his friend. Of the person who had been shocked at the news of each death, who’d been there with Dean as he grieved each and every one. 

Dean could barely breathe. 

The air was very still. The moon crested the horizon like it always did, like Dean’s world hadn’t been gutted by the person who had said he’d loved him.

Madison shifted into a human again, trying to catch him as he collapsed in the grass, curling his knees close to his chest, but it was as if he couldn’t move towards her, as if water filled his ears, blurring the words she was murmuring to him --

Dean wept2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Captain America The Winter Soldier  
> 2: John 11:35


	15. Art Page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to user [uh-tiramisu](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/) for the great art!

Please see art for specific scenes here! [[x](http://uh-tiramisu.livejournal.com/3497.html)]

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Harper's Island AU -- for those who've seen it, you know the end between the correlating characters do not end happily. Before continuing with further detail, there are two brief scenes that can be read with non-consensual overtones. Nothing sexual happens, but they are there. The first scene occurs when Dean confronts Abaddon (known as Abbie at the time) and the second occurs at the end, when Sam interacts with Dean's body in various ways--cutting his hair, dressing him, and so on and so forth. Though he does kiss Dean on the forehead, there is zero rape in this fic. 
> 
> The deaths are violent, and rely primarily on head bashing with various instruments and hanging (there is a lot of hanging in this fic). However, I do not go into extreme or lengthy detail when I describe what happened.
> 
> Side ships include: Meg x Castiel, Castiel x Lilith, Lilith x Lucifer, Michael x Dean, Dean x Anna, Dean x Benny, Ruby x Meg, Ruby x Anna (in reference), Cassie x Maggie, Sarah x Bela, Victor x Gordon, Gordon x Madison, Madison x Charlie
> 
> Almost everybody dies.


End file.
